Can we start selling spermicide?

Rae and I were in the store tonight, minding our own business. It was a slow night, one that didn't afford us a great deal of entertainment.

Then, he walked in.

Upon first glance, he was handsome. Had a roguish sort of charm, like a surfer. Like Matthew McConaughey, without the muscle definition and naked bongo playing. Great smile.

Then of course, he opened his mouth, and screwed it up. Like a man.

After asking where the mall directory was, he asked what we did in the store. So, like a good little bath-crack pushing monkey, I explained it to him.

"So like, glorified water?"

Rae and I both looked at him blankly for a moment, and then realised what he was talking about.

The man neglects to use soap while in the shower.

We tried. We really did. But you can't say things like that without us making fun of you. It's a fact of life.

"Soap is good, dude."

You'd think he'd retreat, particularly because the girl who's boobs he had been eyeballing for the last few minutes was backing away like he was a carrier for the Ebola virus. Oh no. He wouldn't be dissuaded.

Instead, he tried to make us think he was the best catch in the world.

"I have eight kids." "I just got evicted." "I'm buying a Victoria's Secret gift for a girl I've been seeing for two months, because I need to move into her place." "I live in my van." (The kids weren't in there. We asked.)

We try to convince him that he needs to buy said poor, pathetic chick pjs instead of knickers, because either way, he was going to get slapped. To which, he responded, while lifting his shirt to reveal his beer-pack and scar, "I've been stabbed. A slap is like a butterfly on your nose."

Yes, but she's also never going to sleep with you again.

Alert Chris Farley. There's another man in a van down by the river.

Rae's comment, once he'd left. "Dear God. Those poor babies..."

Some people shouldn't breed.