This boy fancies me and I fancy him but he hasn't asked me out; shall I ask him out or shall I just wait for him to ask me out himself?
Banana Fanna Fofanna
Listen, the thing is—OK, wait, first, this is Rob here, not Lord A., because that bastard has gone AWOL all over again, but not in some inside-out dimension-beyond-time way; I got it on good word that he's actually totally legitimately hanging off a goddamn hot-air balloon over the Detroit River getting filmed, although, to be straight, I gotta say that I've gotta a killer fucking view of the Detroit River from where I'm sitting, and there isn't a damn thing hanging over it. Also, it's been mad-windy, so I don't even know if a thing like that is, you know, well-advised. Like, meteorologist Chuck Gaidica has issued a goddamn Cuddle Alert and everything.
But, so, I'm just saying, once again, folks waltz out on their shit, and ole reliable Rob Miller is left holding the pieces and picking up the bag. Folks don't credit me with keeping shit running, but I am, like, the numero uno shit runner around here, you know? Folks are lucky I even happened to saunter in and find the tank empty and the advice unwritten, otherwise all you dear "Mojonauts" and "Mojoketeers" would just be looking at a blank page with a picture of a squid at the top. For reals.
And also, not that it's a thing—because I was coming by anyway, to chill, because this is a cool place, and I like the folks that work here—but it is kinda just totally predictable that Lord A. would flake out and disappear on the day he needs to sign all the paychecks, ain't it? And, like, why the fuck can't we just go to direct deposit like everyone else? For real, I am, like, the last legitimately employable motherfucker in Southeast Michigan who has to wait in line and turn in a signed note to a bank teller in order to cover my electric bill.
But, anyway, the thing with your guy, you're laying this out like as though your choices are for you to do something or for him to do something, and there is basically two big problems with that:
But, anyway, getting us back to Problem 1, it's pretty clear that your choices are Do Shit or Don't, and that you basically have to choose Do, or else jackshit is going to happen. That said, you really do have two choices (which I totally understand is sorta confusing, because up to this point you've already had two choices twice, and each time one choice has been a fake dead end choice—but this time, for real, there are two legit choices; I ain't Lucy with the football, OK?)
As much as I'm about the long boots and the short skirt, I'm really more pro the first option in real life, 'cause, the thing is, even if you hit the Stealth Version hard, he still might not bite, and then you are left all totally wondering about what The Other Problem is, and you've been so fucking weird and over-the-top that there really basically isn't any room to just straight up ask. You burn bridges with the Stealth Version. So, totally, just go and ask him out straight up, and if he isn't into it, you're basically already wrecked, so you might as well push deep and find out what The Other Problem is. Then get drunk, blue-ball some other guy, write mean shit about them both on Facebook, wake up with a giant fucking headache, and totally embrace the new day. Problem solved.
Incidentally, both Jarwaun (the kid who does most of Lord A's typing) and Trael (his kid brother) are looking over my shoulder, and they dug the whale-tail pics, but otherwise think this is terrible advice—but they're kids, and don't really know shit. Trust me: This is the One True Path, Banana-Fanny. Kiss a chick for me while you're on it.
Occasional Helper Dude to
Poor Mojo's Advice Column and Other Stuff I Don't Really Give a Shit About
P.S. Whoa, OK, turns out that Lord A. has gotten his high-toned shit all tangled into this mess. Man, I don't even know, like, where the fuck to start with sorting a thing like this out, you know? Only thing that's solid is that this is going to fuck up paying my bills this month. Fucker.
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