Here there be monsters (socratic) wrote,
Here there be monsters

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Worst foot forward

They say that you should always wear clean underwear, because you might get in a car accident or something and then the doctor would see you in your dirty drawers. This has always struck me as an odd point of view. Does anyone ever get in a car accident and go "Oh my GOD! This is horrible. My underwear is absolutely filthy! Oh yeah, and that guy's dead."? Plus if you have a wound serious enough to require the doctor to take your pants off to treat it, won't the blood cover up any potential stain problems. I think that when they cut the blood-soaked boxers off you they just sort of toss them, without checking for little piss stains first. "Run this through spectral analysis. Let's see if Mr. Kuhntwengar's been wiping properly."

Worrying about your underwear in case of a car accident is like hearing that North Korea just launched a nuclear strike against your city and thinking "Did I remember to mail that bill?" Don't mean to alarm you, chief, but you've got bigger problems now.

Whenever I think I'm going to get into a car accident I put on my worst pair of underwear. You guys out there know what I'm talking about. The pair that looks like its better days were during the Eisenhower administration. The pair with more rips than A-Rod got for the swatted ball incident, and stains on top of stains on top of stains. The pair that if a doctor were to actually analyze they'd be like..."Okay, we think we've got this part now. It appears to be a mixture of mayonnaise and blackberry jam. And...this other one...passenger pigeon shit? Aren't they extinct?"

Because I'm tired of this best foot forward bullshit. When you put your best foot forward do you know what you do? You set yourself up for failure. It's like with dating. On the first date you're supposed to primp and groom yourself into the best you can look. Get your hair done, shave off that stubble, maybe even get that infected toe looked at if you're wearing sandals. Nothing's too extravagant. The thing is, she may fall for this iteration of you, but that ain't the real you, man. We both know that by date five you're going to be wearing the ill-fitting powderblue leisure suit your portly uncle left you. The very suit he died in. She's going to ask you what the smell is and you're going to find a bit of relish from the hot dog he choked on still in the pocket, and it'll be over. And you'll ask yourself why. Why did she leave me? Was it because I asked her to split the bill for dinner? No. Was it because I drive a '95 Dodge Neon that's gone 300,000 miles and smells strongly of fish? Not a chance. Was it because I put the moves on her while we were listening to "The Best of Wham!?" No...okay...maybe a little bit.

But seriously man, it was none of those things, it was because you set the bar too HIGH. You showed up dressed to the nines and made her expect the moon and at that point you had nowhere to go but DOWN. Granted you went down at a pace perilously close to terminal velocity, but it was bound to happen. When you put your best foot forward the foot that follows next is GUARANTEED not to be as good. That's the whole definition of best foot. You've shot your wad. GO HOME JUNIOR.

No, the way to go about it is for your first foot forward to be your worst foot forward. Show up looking like a homeless guy who spent the night fighting with a pack of wild dogs over his cardboard box. Show up with blood on your collar and claim that you don't know whose it is. Show up and demonstrate the kind of class that women really don't get to see these days outside of sailors on shore leave and convicted sex offenders.

Sure, she may give you the brush off. She may leave before dinner is over. She may spray you in the eyes with mace and run screaming from the room like she'd just seen the ghost of Boris Karloff. But she may stay. And if she does, well, you know that no matter what you do in the future it'll be an improvement. She's seen rock bottom and while she may not have liked it she TOLERATED it, and isn't that what counts? When you start dressing less like a homeless guy and more like a guy who knows how to spend 7 minutes and $25 at The Gap Outlet store in Weehawken getting your LOOK on, well, it'll be the sweetest sight she's ever seen. Congratulations, it's all uphill from here.

And the same thing applies to things other than chicks as well. Like job interviews. Don't go in looking like James Bond after a meeting with the Queer Eye guys. That's now how you look when you show up to work in the morning. Mix in some bags under the eyes, maybe a jelly doughnut stain or two, a $5 haircut, and you could stand to sexually harass the receptionist on the way in. I don't care if she's 90, you're making an impression here. If they hire you after all that you know that nothing you can do will get you fired. You're in. You're done. It's a beautiful thing.

Remember kids, when you put your best foot forward you set yourself up for FAILURE and dismissal. When you show up looking your worst, then you find out who can really stand to have you around. You can take that the bank. In your bathrobe. With the front hanging open a little so they can see Mr. Willie.
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