You visit any other major American city and you will notice one thing L.A. just doesn’t have. It’s called public transportation. Sure you can take your life in your hands and ride the Metro bus and shit, it will only take you two hours of reading the graffiti carved into your seat to get from the Westside to Downtown. Or how about the new trains that nobody ever rides that don’t start or end anywhere you want to be after dark.

Big friggin’ deal most dudes think – it’s better to drive your own car anyway and plus… “chicks dig sweet rides.” I hear it all the time – guys thinking that a car is the key to spreading the legs of that girl they don’t have enough game to bag on their own. Chumps with no self-confidence that have been reduced to modern day peacocks, using a car logo as a tail feather hoping to attract a mate.

Let me tell you all one thing. If a girl drops her panties because she likes your car she’s not going to be your girl for too long. Why? Because in L.A. someone is always going to have a better car than you. Someone that, like you, suffers from the disease I like to call, “my cock is small and my last resort is emptying my bank account to buy a ride I can’t afford.”

We all know who suffers from this terrible sickness. Like the guy who has a $750 a month car payment for his Land Rover who shares an apartment in Reseda with 3 other dudes and pays $525 a month for rent? Or how about the dude that buys a Honda Civic for twenty-two grand and then spends another thirty g’s on rims, fenders, nitrous and a muffler that makes his fifty thousand dollar car sound like a fifty thousand dollar piece of shit?  And don’t forget the 909, the meth heads with the crew cab trucks raised as high as physics will allow with the huge tires and the bad boy sticker on the back window? Any of these ring a bell?

There are many faces to this disease and before you yourself fall prey slow your roll, take a deep breath and save your damn money. You see, the key to bagging the hot babes, my friends, lies in one simple truth – “treat the princesses like bitches and treat the bitches like princesses” and heed the very valuable advice handed down from my close friend Ice Cube:

I tell a girl in a minute yo, I drive a bucket

And don’t think nuthin’ of it

She can ride or walk, either leave it or love it…

You noticed her when you got there and she has been giving you attention. Blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic but not too athletic. Curvy with jeans that ride low, but not too low, and no tramp stamp to ruin the visual. A solid B+ that tonight is more like an A-. And she is making you think that you have a chance.  Your liquid courage is flowing, you start feeling like the man and for a few minutes you can see yourself undressing her in your car later that evening.

Problem is it’s never going to happen brother. Yes you heard me, you don’t stand a chance. Your fresh cologne, those $300 jeans you’re rocking and that new David Yurman dog tag you over-paid for and you aren’t even leaving with her digits. Sliding her jeans off in the back seat of your car later? Forget about it.

The reason? The reason is her name is the Bartender. And the Bartender my friends, might be the hardest conquest in the world for a bachelor out with the boys on a Friday night.  Double black diamond, kids don’t try this at home kind of stuff we are talking about here.  Thinking you can take home a hot bartender is one of the biggest traps a man can fall into.

Think about it. She’s heard all of your lines, all of your jokes and all variations of your dialogue. She knows you drink Budweiser and shots of Patron chilled and that you used your quarters to play “Poker Face” on the jukebox.  She knows who you hang with and just saw your wasted buddy walk into the Women’s bathroom by mistake ten minutes ago. She knows your game inside and out and you don’t even know her first name. Put short, she eats guys like you for breakfast for a living and she doesn’t shit where she eats.

So next time you find yourself in this situation and a hot bartender gives you that seductive stare, do yourself a favor my friends and heed the very appropriate advice of my close friend Vincent Vega: “You’re gonna thank her for a nice evening, go home, jerk-off and that’s all you’re gonna do.”