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have no shot.
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    Women of New York, my cherished home state, will always be my first love. But after careful empirical analysis, I have to say the chicks in LA are, on average, much hotter. I’m sorry, but it’s true. On the other hand, women in New York (and for that matter, almost everywhere) are more approachable than women in LA. In fact, my frat buddy Ryan even makes the laughable but logical case that the girls in LA are actually too hot. Which prompts me to pose an important philosophical question: If a perfect ten walks in the door but no one can talk to her…does she exist?
    Rating women and scoping out tens are an integral part of the game for guys. Plus, anything with rankings or stats kinda reminds us of sports, so that’s a bonus. In the end, though, hitting on chicks is like the NCAA tournament: on any given night there’s a chance you could take down someone ranked much higher than you. And that, in a nutshell, is the beauty of being single: you never know what girls the next bar will bring. Hope springs eternal. Still, in the numbers game, the odds are often stacked against you. In college basketball, overcoming those odds is called being Cinderella. Every year, when March Madness unfolds, you hear a lot of gushing over Cinderella. But I’d only rate her about a seven.
    THE NAME GAME
     
    I have never met anyone who says they are great with names. Even I catch myself at parties complaining, “I’m just terrible with names.” And I’m always met with obedient head nods and murmurs of agreement. The fact is, guys remember the names of women they want to remember. If I didn’t get your name the first time, and I don’t bother asking again, that means I don’t give a shit. If I didn’t get your name the first time, and I ask you over and over again, that means I’m interested but too wasted to be of any use to you. If I strike up a conversation with you, and blatantly overuse your name (“Wow, that’s really great, Jamie. Jamie, what is it you do again, Jamie? Really, Jamie, you’re an attorney? I’ve always been interested in the minutiae of corporate law, Jamie.”), that is a telltale sign I’m really into you. Or I have retrograde amnesia.
    One of the rarest and most serendipitous things that can occur when I’m kicking game at a bar is meeting two cute girls who are friends and happen to have the same name. I call this “Double Jeopardy.” Now I only have to remember one of them. Sometimes I get cocky and give the girls cute nicknames for the night like Lindsey One and Lindsey Two. Of course, then I forget which is which. On the other end of the difficulty scale is meeting a chick with a difficult-to-pronounce name. Ladies, when you introduce yourself, if the guy says, “What?” twice or more, you fall into this category. Now I’m drunk and trying to remember both your name and which vowel the fucking umlaut goes over. This is quickly becoming too much work.
    HCIs
     
    For years, I’ve wondered how it’s possible that annoying people who don’t shut the fuck up don’t realize how annoying they are. We’ve all been there—trapped in a conversation with someone who isn’t able to pick up on the most obvious hints that you’re not interested whatsoever in what they have to say and are desperate to leave. I call these people HCIs—“head cock inducers”—because while you’re standing there listening to them blab on and on, you subconsciously cock your head to the side and think to yourself, “Is this person fucking serious right now?”
    An HCI can be a guy or a girl. Either way, they’re always blissfully unaware. It seems like whenever I’m talking to a bunch of women, the least attractive and most annoying one latches on to me. It’s kind of like when you go to Hooters and get the one ugly waitress. You sit down, all excited—“Hooters, yeah!”—and then you see the waitress start to walk in your direction and you’re like, “Oh no, not her. No [look