It’s a strange new world we live in with social networking and an abundance of technological doohickeys that simultaneously bring us closer together but intimately pull us further apart. We have more friends, but the connection between us means less. Finding a booty call is simple, but meaningful relationships elude us. And in this mad, mad world of Zuckerbergs and Winklevoss Twins, who can we look up to? Who can we rely on for dependable romantic advice?
There’s only one man, the only man willing to stand outside a woman’s house for five days to show her how serious he is about wanting to drill her, only one man that knows the perfect movie to quote to ensure clandestine sexual liasons (Love, Actually), and only one man who can turn that frizz-own upsi-dizzy. Jean Ralphio. And in this month’s GQ, he offers the greatest romantic advice ever printed on glossy paper with cologne samples stuck in between. I hope you have a change of clothes, because your eyes are about to piss tears.
GQ: Best way to pop the more important question, i.e. “Will you have sex with me?”
Jean-Ralphio: Text; tweet; Friendster post; fortune in a fortune cookie; during a screening of Stuart Little; sign language; Legos; make an adorable 2-year-old hand over a note asking the question for you; as a follow-up question, after she says “no” to “will you marry me.”
GQ: What’s the ideal date?
Jean-Ralphio: Me, Snake Juice, anything by Tyrese or Sisqó playing in the background, waterbed.
GQ: You’re in fifth grade. It’s math class. Julie sends you a note: I think you’re kinda cute.” What’s your next move?
Jean-Ralphio: I pass her a scientific calculator with pre-typed numbers that, when held upside down, spells BOOBIES.
GQ: You’re 83 years old. It’s bingo night. Ethel makes eye contact. What’s your next move?
Jean-Ralphio: I pass her a scientific calculator with pre-typed numbers that, when held upside down, spells BOOBIES.
That’s right, fellas. Break our your calculators. Pull out the snake juice. Make some space in the make-out room. Ballers and ballerettes, fasten your seat belts. Your about to get to third base. Over the pants.
(Source: GQ)
