My old anime club had a chronic Next Big Thing Guy, who always had a concept for a plan for the best anime/video game/manga/indie film ever that would become a household word, and all he needed was to latch onto someone to do the actual work. (A sample paradigm-shifting idea: “My protagonist is…a hacker!“ (Pauses in anticipation of applause.) During the quarter-century I knew him, we never saw so much as a sketchbook or a demo tape or a written draft out of him; he quickly earned the nickname of “Vaporweasel.” (Heck, even becoming an intellectual predator like Bob Kane or Thomas Edison requires ingenuity, enterprise, and networking skill.)
(Meanwhile, other members of that club quietly drew and wrote and programmed; one’s become a professional comics artist, several more founded their own indie comics consortium, and one’s become a novelist.)
And if that woman turns him down or roasts him, rather than leaving ashamed, he just moves on to another lady in the group... his eyes sliding sideways down the line like, "Oh, hey... didn't see YOU there. I'm a prime... *burp*... catch and you are.... here. You got real purdy hair and I'm real good at... ya know....sex-stuff. Wanna go to my car?"
Bonus points the further the process continues: the hot women all turned him down, and then the presentable ones weren’t much more impressed, so finally Dickzilla reaches the very end of the sorting algorithm with you, who should be abjectly grateful that he so much as deigned to acknowledge your existence.
Yep, it sounds like you know JUST the sort I'm talking about.
I think those people might not have a contiguous memory,... my best guess is they don't know what other people do/don't know. They literally have no idea that everyone has heard their idea 3 times, and yet they still can't get anyone interested in doing the work for them.... or that the other women in the group *saw him* offend other ladies in the group.
Spoiler: I lay there with my head slumped sideways on the bar. Not because I was drunk, or stoned, or roofied: because that angle was necessary for me to see around Dickzilla to watch Colbert (who was infinitely more interesting) on the closed-caption TV as I ate my pizza.
I was there at all for a potty stop, a hot meal at the only place open at that hour that would serve a pedestrian, and half an hour of warmth and respite from the January chill before heading the remaining couple blocks home.
(Meanwhile, other members of that club quietly drew and wrote and programmed; one’s become a professional comics artist, several more founded their own indie comics consortium, and one’s become a novelist.)
And if that woman turns him down or roasts him, rather than leaving ashamed, he just moves on to another lady in the group... his eyes sliding sideways down the line like, "Oh, hey... didn't see YOU there. I'm a prime... *burp*... catch and you are.... here. You got real purdy hair and I'm real good at... ya know....sex-stuff. Wanna go to my car?"
Bonus points the further the process continues: the hot women all turned him down, and then the presentable ones weren’t much more impressed, so finally Dickzilla reaches the very end of the sorting algorithm with you, who should be abjectly grateful that he so much as deigned to acknowledge your existence.
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I think those people might not have a contiguous memory,... my best guess is they don't know what other people do/don't know. They literally have no idea that everyone has heard their idea 3 times, and yet they still can't get anyone interested in doing the work for them.... or that the other women in the group *saw him* offend other ladies in the group.
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I was there at all for a potty stop, a hot meal at the only place open at that hour that would serve a pedestrian, and half an hour of warmth and respite from the January chill before heading the remaining couple blocks home.
Alone, fortunately.
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