When They Just Don't Get It...

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It's hard enough, trying to be amazing and brilliant, without having someone louse it up for you.
You've thought it through, the timing is perfect and there are no more customers in the store to hinder the perfect pick-up line. You're wearing your best robe, beard and mustache are combed and flowing like the fine back hair of a gorgian yack (oh yeah, baby).
Heck, you even brushed your teeth and clipped your toe nails!
You're lookin gooood.
But as you stroll up, nonchalant to the young lady, with a hint of 'you-can't-touch-this-but-you're-gonna-wanna', your sidekick bursts through the door.
Before you can open your mouth to profess your undying...well..."like" to the young damsel, HE has to strut in with a smoldering cigar in one hand and a rat, cheese and yogurt sandwich in the other.
It wouldn't have been too bad, had he not been eating with his mouth open WIDE, the rat entrails dropping all over her clean floor...
Of course, I'm not pointing fingers here.
This could have be anyone...who's under four feet, green and wears polka-dotted boxers.
I mean, how can you unleash your utter coolness--that "shake-yer-bootie" perfection, when the people you hang with smell like a rotting latrine?
Sigh.
Truth is, you can't.
That's the whole point.
You have to weigh and consider what's more important: the friendship you've built over five hundred years...or the lovely sales woman at the rug import store. The choice is simple. You go with the friend.
...unless she's REALLY pretty.
Then again, maybe this could all be solved by locking the sidekick in the janitor closet...and fusing the doorknob.
I'm just sayin.

Chuck