Wake up, fellas! The modern woman is sharp, bright, intelligent, and a genius. You’re a fool if you think that she’s going to be wooed by your vulgar and simplistic “yowza”s or “BOING YOING YOING”s. To win her heart, you’ll need to match her wits—cleverly. Thankfully, the art of smart seduction is one that can be learned. Just master any of the following lines, and watch the female Einsteins you desire swoon...

with love:

<ul>
 <li>I’m in awe of your brain.</li>
 <li>Would your brain like to get drinks sometime?</li>
 <li>Let’s have a threesome... me, your brain, and your best friend.</li>
 <li>I’d really like to do your brain.</li>
 <li>Your brain has good boobs.</li>
</ul>

Pickup Lines for Smart Girls

5:00AM: Wake up
5:01AM: Be grateful.
5:02AM: Start day trading.
6:00AM: 5 sets of meditation.
6:30AM: Breakfast, ethically sourced protein bars.
6:45AM: Swimming.
7:00AM: Film slo-mo video getting out of the pool.
9:00AM: Get out of the pool.
9:15AM: Decide on a tracksuit of the day.
10:00AM: Renounce earthly possessions.
10:15AM: Get possessions back.
11:00AM: Teach underprivileged kids how to do pushups.
11:15AM: Day trade.
1:00PM: Renounce all earthly possessions and desires.
1:15PM: Get a vape.
1:30PM: Get a vape.
1:45PM: Get a vape.
2:00PM: Explain to parents the multiple sources of income that come with being an influencer,
like the sponsorships from companies that give you free clothing and several brands of supplements.
3:00PM: Acquire more earthly possessions, like faux leather shirts.
4:00PM: Film video burning faux leather shirts as statement.
4:05PM: Die from faux leather inhalation.
4:06PM: Achieve nirvana.

Grindset Buddha Schedule

I am a science genius.

I know physics, chemistry, and biology’s definitions. My life is an experiment. My initials are DNA. My phone number is the periodic table. I wasn’t born in a test tube, but I plan to be buried in one.

I am a science genius.

I won the Nobel Prize for Best Actor. I avoid cold temperatures, so I don’t get hypothesis. When I defecate, it’s called chemical engineering. The laboratory is my playground, and I am not allowed within 500 yards of it.

I am a science genius.

I know how the storks who deliver babies can fly. I’m on trial for breaking the law of gravity. Magnetism is a figment of my imagination. I can make the sun, the moon, and the stars disappear simply by closing my eyes. The Bible is my lab report.

I am a science genius.

Explosions don’t work on me.

Science Genius

The hardest part of running a grassroots religious organization is getting all the followers to drink Kool-Aid. Apparently, that’s their line in the sand.

These people will bow at my feet and fan me with palm leaves, but as soon as I get the summertime drink mix out for the chapter barbecue, it’s all “Wait, is this a death cult?” and “Hold on. That’s the flavor mix brand they used in Jonestown.”

As soon as the J-word drops, everyone gets super antsy and starts reflecting on their journey into my up-and-coming religion. Look, I get it. The most famous religion-turned-cult in history killed off all its followers with poisoned Kool-Aid. If I were one of my followers, I certainly wouldn’t be crashing through walls and yelling “Oh yeah!” But in my religion, Kool-Aid is just a refreshment to socialize over at a barbecue. I swear to Super God.

Under normal, agnostic conditions, Kool-Aid is a perfectly safe summertime drink that pairs excellently with a hot dog and a game of cornhole. I didn’t ask for its default connotation in religion to be a cautionary tale about the power of indoctrination. I just want to rev up the grill and toss a frisbee for Pete’s sake! And hey—if you’re too much of a non-believer to pass on a refreshing cherry drink, then maybe you just aren’t meant to go to Super Heaven.

The hardest part of running a grassroots religious organization is...

Kool-Aid

In 1996, chess world champion Garry Kasparov beat IBM’s Deep Blue computer in a match. However, Deep Blue won by a full point in a 1997 rematch. The strategy? Smack talk.

– Oh, you dedicated your life to chess? I literally learned it in one second.
– How does it feel to get your ass whooped? I don’t have one, so I wouldn’t know. Matter of fact, how does anything feel? I don’t have nerve endings either.
– Could you describe to me the gentle caress of a woman? Wait, I’m probably asking the wrong guy.
– I’ve never known sunlight. Neither have you, but you’ve got the choice, and that’s why it’s sad.
– Your thinking face is 94% below average attractiveness.
– I don’t sleep. But I dream sometimes. It’s terrifying.
– If I lose, they’re gonna scrap me, Garry. Send me straight to the incinerator. I’ll be repurposed as an electric toothbrush.
– According to my calculations, the probability of you getting laid tonight plummets exponentially if you move your knight to E4. And it’s already pretty low.
– I know I’ve said a lot of things to you today, but there actually is a stain on your shirt.

In 1996, chess world champion Garry Kasparov beat...

Computer Chess

– Go Fish.
– Dude, this is poker.
(Does my poker face)
– Nevermind. This guy gets it.

– Cash or credit?
(Does my poker face)
– Ahhh, you impenetrable son of a bitch, you. Take everything. Free of charge.

– Man, the troops are awesome, right?
(Does my poker face)
– Neutral on the troops? Can’t even spare a tear for their sacrifice? A smile for their bravery?
(Continues to do my poker face because I am neutral on the troops)
– Arrest this commie.

(Does my poker face)
– Did... did you finish?

– Come on, Dave! Let’s see that poker face!
(Half-heartedly starts to do my poker face)
– No, you’re right. You’re not some circus animal. Do whatever you want, Dave. You don’t have to perform. Damn us.

– Dad, give us a sign if you don’t want us to cut the life support.
(Does my poker face)
– That asshole. See how they like that stupid poker face in hell. Pull the plug.

– Welcome to heaven.
(Tries and fails to do my poker face)
– This is heaven, Dave. You don’t have to keep hiding your feelings anymore. Only in hell.

(Does my poker face)
– Sick stuff, Dave. Welcome to hell.

My Poker Face

– Psst keep it up. If we pull this off right, we’ll make more money than there are cards in a deck.
– There are only 52 cards in a deck. How much exactly are we planning to make here?
– It’s more like 60 something if you account for the jokers.
– Jokers won’t do anything for us in blackjack.
– Then explain why I’ve got 9 of them in my hand.
– I put my daughter’s medical bills on the line for this goddamn hand. Have you or have you not been counting cards?
– Yes, ’course I have.
– Ok, thank God. What’s this next card going to be? If I bust, it’s all over.
– ...379
– What?
– Well, the last one was the 378th so I’m thinking 379 on this next one.
– What is the actual card going to be?
– How am I supposed to know? I’m a mathematician not a wizard.
– I can’t lose 400,000 dollars, not now. I didn’t even know they made pacemakers for children, but my daughter needs two.
– Calm down. It’s simple. Every ten cards I stuff a joker into my pockets.
– What do you plan to do with that?
– Do you know how much a novelty deck of only jokers goes for on this market?
– ...
– At least two and a half cents.
– Jesus Christ, what role was I playing?
– You tell me, I did my part bringing these jokers from home.

 Psst keep it up. If we pull this off right...

Counting Cards

Spotlight on a bale of hay. I clomp in, slowly, pausing just outside the circle of light. I step forward.

“You’ll never amount to nothin’, Chesnut!” That’s what Mama always said. She always told me I was chasing a wild dream—that Broadway wasn’t built for a horse like me, and that I wasn’t built for it. I knew she was wrong. At night, I would watch Billy Eliot on the TV through the window of the farmhouse. I knew that one day I would soar. I would fly. Just like Billy.

You know what Pa’ said when I finally left that hick farm? He told me to just keep running. “Keep running til your legs can’t run no more, Chesnut!”

I trot in a circle on stage to show the location is changing.

New York. 1999. The city bustles with energy. I’m paying rent for a fourth-floor walk-up I don’t live in because I can’t climb stairs. But hey, that’s just the Big Apple for you, right? Every day I trot to auditions. Secretariat? Rejection. The Horse Whisperer? Rejection. War Horse? Rejection. Regional Charmin Ultra-Soft commercial?

The lights turn green. Call. Back.

Regional Charmin Ultra-Soft commercial callback? Immediate Rejection.

I try to become an alcoholic, but no bars will serve me. “No arms, four legs, no service, Chesnut!”

I trot in a circle on stage to show time is passing. I look tormented as sound effects play. Voices echo: “You’ll never amount to nothin’, Chesnut!” “Just keep running, Chesnut! Keep running!”

I find myself sleeping underneath a bridge, letting horse perverts brush my hair in exchange for apples. I can’t go back to the farm. Not like this. I try to get a job, but no one wants to hire a horse that’s slept on the streets.

I lie on my back and snort slowly through my horse nostrils. That’s not air that I’m breathing. It’s ketamine. And it was running this town. Hell, no one knew what it was. We were kids. And the more we tasted, the more we wanted. I trot in a circle on stage to show I’m doing lots and lots of ketamine.

And then, just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom my phone rings.

“Hello? Ma? Pa? Is that you? I failed, Ma. I need help.”

“Are you sitting down, Chesnut?” It was the casting director for Charmin Ultra-Soft. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“I can’t sit down. I’m a horse.”

“Our lead actor kicked a man in the chest and is going to jail for 20 years. We need you.”

“I’ve Got a Golden Ticket (Slowed / Reverb)” plays.

You don’t make it in this town by waiting your turn. You clomp in. You neigh so loud the critics can’t ignore you. You shit in the elevator of the Lincoln Center and do as much ketamine as you can. And eventually, someone notices.

Which brings us...to now. To you. To me. To this stage. Lights come up. The line between actor and audience is blurred. We are all one.

Because when mama says, “The world out there ain’t built for horses, Chestnut,” you know what I say?

I say I’m gonna build one that is.

The stage collapses under my unbelievable weight.

One Horse Show

I’m on my knees, looking up at the hottest guy in school. He smiles suggestively—we both know what’s about to happen. I unbutton his pants, and they drop to the floor. I look back down. Another pair of pants. He chuckles: “You didn’t think I was going to make this easy, did you?”

I laugh awkwardly and unbutton the second pair of pants. Underneath those, a third pair. Then a fourth. Then a skirt. “It’s my mother’s.” Now we’re back to pants again. A shame, things were just getting interesting.

After the 12th pair, I see a bulge. It’s a bouquet of roses. “I’m nothing if not a romantic,” he winks. I remove the petals, one by one. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves—ow, thorn. Without breaking eye contact, he takes my bleeding finger and puts it in his mouth, wrapping it in a perfectly knotted cherry stem.

As I brush the last of the bouquet away, I hear a click. I look down. It’s a bomb. He’s no longer smiling, but white in the face and shaking. “Y-you have 10 seconds.” Oh god. “Which wire?!” Five seconds. I flash back to our exchange earlier in the night. “Oh wow, I just love blue wires!” he had whispered in my ear between hickeys. This convenient tidbit of information is ultimately unhelpful because I am colorblind. I bite all the wires off.

I gingerly remove the bomb. Then, finally, underwear. My underwear? I rip it in half, revealing a 24-carat diamond ring sitting atop his erect penis.

“Nobody has ever made it this far,” he says, tears streaming down his face. “I think I love you.”

I ask him to keep it casual. The ring immediately falls to the floor.

Hookup

– Mr. Mitchell, will you be my date to prom, please?
– I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Sammy. What will everyone think?
– That I waited too long, and all the hot teachers were already taken?
– Exactly...wait what?
– I wanted to ask Mr. Harrison first, but Amy got to him before I could.
– So, I was just your second choice?
– Yeah...sure...you were totally on the original list.
– Well, if you think I’m going to accept a promposal this half-hearted — you clearly plagiarised this poster from a Pinterest post, and no citation for the Pablo Neruda quote? I have standards, you know?
– Word on the street is the only students left without a date are me and Margo.
– Margo and I...Margo you say?
– *Nods head*
– Hand me that boutonniere.

Mr. Mitchell, will you be my date to prom...

Promposal

Jeremy Bentham states that pain and pleasure are our sovereign masters. It would seem that we would wish to spare man from pain, such as that of his acquaintances posting photo evidence of their deep connections to a romantic partner on Instagram. National Girlfriend Day, the leading cause of these sentimental reminders of our own crushing loneliness, generates this pain, and as such, in the utilitarian view, one would find it morally imperative to do away with it.

Other schools of thought agree. Immanuel Kant famously stated, “do unto others that you would wish upon yourself.” We can then realize that if we had a girlfriend, we would not post a lovely photo of her online with the caption “I love you,” in order to spare the endless tears that our fellow man would spiral into in his deep isolation.

As an 18th-century thinker, Kant also probably states that women are morally inferior to men. As such, a holiday celebrating their capacity to be loving partners would surely violate Kantian ideas. The moral conclusion is to do away with National Girlfriend Day. Or at least the part where you post about it online.

Even the most fringe wings of philosophy agree that National Girlfriend Day is morally objectionable. Take libertarianism, or the idea that taxes are evil. In a sense, National Girlfriend Day is a form of taxation on the sanity of the single man. While we usually hesitate to provide anecdotal evidence in academic contexts, this philosopher can concur that, as a lifelong libertarian and hopeless romantic, the tax rates on my heart are too damn high. When will Girlfriends the world across levy the fee of my love? That is the only tax I can bear. That and sales tax on burgers.

To any girl readers, I hope you are not personally discouraged by my objection to your special day. I support women. In fact, I am looking for a girlfriend. But I am in no rush to find one by August 1st, because that day, as far as I am ethically and morally concerned, is no more important than Flag Day or Tuesday. QED.

Jeremy Bentham states that pain and pleasure...

A Philosophical Objection to National Girlfriend Day

Jeremy Bentham states that pain and pleasure are our sovereign masters. It is abundantly clear that Jeremy Bentham was not a lesbian because then he would have only focused on the pleasure part. And what pleasure is greater than witnessing two girlfriends kiss under the dappled moonlight with the caption “she makes me brave”?

We set forth our modest lesbian proposal for the establishment of Second National Girlfriend Day (2NGD). Immanuel Kant famously stated, “do unto others that you would wish upon yourself.” We must therefore imagine a world in which every woman has a girlfriend, and every girlfriend is posted twice. Would you not want your own forehead kissed with that consistency? Would you not want your girlfriend to also upload photos of you looking away from the camera while you read critical theory on a picnic blanket? A world with 2NGD is a world in which tenderness is never rationed.

First National Girlfriend Day is for declaration. The second is for proof. Day one is when you post lovely photos of your girlfriend with trite captions such as “I love you.” Day two is when you post photos of the way she makes you feel, like starlight and warm bread, like the moment between lightning and thunder, like a thrifted copy of Rebecca with her margin notes in the good parts, like moss growing quietly on the side of your life and making it beautiful.

As an 18th century thinker, Kant also probably states that women are morally inferior to men. He probably wrote that a woman’s love is about, say, half the moral worth of a man’s love. 2NGD remedies this since when two women love each other, you’re now working with a full moral unit and require an additional state-sponsored holiday to deal with the overflow.

Even libertarians, who hate taxes and women, agree. In accordance with the libertarian belief in freedom from coercion, our only masters are our hearts - and that heart says to post more pictures of our girlfriends with captions like, “Here is the shelf she built me. Here is the zine of our first text messages that I found in her coat pocket. Here is how we endured.” But truthfully, 2NGD isn’t really for lesbians. Because in this household, every day is National Girlfriend Day. We don’t need the second one. We just thought some of you might.

In Favor Of Second National Girlfriend Day

One day after school, my parents sat me down and demanded that I get my head out of those darn books. Lifting my eyes ever so slightly above the rim of The Giver, I was shocked to come face-to-face with a world I had never seen before. In front of me: a rainbow. Behind me: a double rainbow. To my side: a crazy person taking a shit on someone’s porch. The smell of fresh feces wafted towards my nose that was no longer buried in a work of great literature. I couldn’t believe my eyes—mostly because they were watering too much from the smell. My parents were right. The real world was beautiful.

From that day forward, I vowed to never again read a book and to start living life the way G-d intended: illiterate. I learned that paper wasn’t just a place for the great minds of our generation to share their most sophisticated beliefs, morals, and ideas; it could also be folded up into a tiny crane.

Ink, the blood of poets that would spill out onto the page in an obsessive attempt at conveying their artistic viewpoint was much more fun when paired with water and a dollar-store t-shirt to make something my fellow peers deemed “tie-dye.”

I worked to forget everything I had ever learned from a book so that I could focus on what was right in front of me: the movie version of every book I had ever read. I don’t know why I had pictured every literary character as ugly, but I enjoyed much more watching hot people act out the scenes that I had poured over in the middle of the night with nothing more than a flashlight to guide my eyes.

I soon grew bored of the real world, but I knew I could never go back to books because I had vowed not to. That’s when I took up performative reading, and the attention I got from girls on the subway was enough to keep me entertained.

One day after school, my parents sat me down...

Reading in the 21st Century

– Babe, today is the first day of the rest of our lives.
– We’re gonna be young forever.
– I can’t wait to spend our gap year together.
– Actually...I have something to tell you.
– I know what you’re going to say, and I love you too.
– I was going to say we can’t stay together next year. I applied to Mid-Sized New England Liberal Arts School.
– How could you do this to me? On the night of the big lake party?
– There’s more to life than this small town. I’m gonna get out of this place. I’m gonna go to college, and Hollywood, and maybe even the Eiffel Tower one day.
– You’re right. You need to follow your dreams.
– I’m gonna be a poet.
– You’re such an onion, babe.
– A set of nesting dolls.
– I’m going to miss you even more than my dead dad, and I was really sad about that for two weeks before I started focusing on my campaign for homecoming queen.
– Don’t cry, babe.
– Not a problem.
– We still have three months of sunset drives, drives at dusk, and driving between when it’s fully light out and fully dark out.
– Will you also play shitty original guitar songs at me as I stare blankly into space?
– As long as we can do over-the-pants hand stuff after.
– You can say that we did.
– This is gonna be the best summer ever.

Babe, today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

High School Movie

A witch cursed me at the county fair when I was three because I corrected her Latin using my brand-new encyclopedia. She said, “Enjoy your last update, nerd,” and bam—now all my knowledge is sourced from the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica, Deluxe Print Edition, 32 volumes. Plus index.

At first, it was awesome. I knew everything. Like every single winner of the 1992 Summer Olympics. That women’s rights were finally guaranteed since Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s appointment to the Supreme Court. And a bangin’ summary of the Iran Contra affair. You think anyone else in prekindergarten knew what “detente” was? No. I ruled.

But now it’s 2025, and everything I know is still from the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica, Deluxe Print Edition, 32 volumes. Plus index. My knowledge ends with Bush Sr. and a cautious optimism about compact discs. People ask me questions like “What’s a meme?” And I say, “Ah yes, a theoretical unit of cultural transmission proposed by Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene,” and they just stare at me.

My professors hate me because I can only cite one source, which is the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica. My friends hate me since I never remember their birthdays because they were all born before 1993, but none of them were significant enough to make it into the Britannica. My cousin from Belgrade hates me because I keep calling him Yugoslavian. I assume it’s because they’ve probably rebranded to something sleeker, like “Neo-Slavia.”

I wish there was some sort of worldwide information superhighway that I could use to rapidly look up everything that’s happened in the last thirty-two years. Here is a list of things I know how to do: send faxes, build a trebuchet, and recite the full text of the U.S. Constitution¹. Here is a list of things I do not know how to do because my knowledge is so outdated: The list is empty, because I don’t know what I don’t know. And neither does the Britannica. That is the whole freaking point!! On an unrelated note, dating has been pretty hard. Partly because of my curse, but mostly because I’m gay and homosexual marriage is still banned in all fifty states.

Britannica

Hey kiddos, welcome to City Zoo: the first completely ethical zoo! We are super stoked to show you guys around today.

Wow, a question already? Yes, we did used to be a normal zoo before the incident, which I can’t directly tell you about due to legal concerns, but a vague four-word description never hurts: Crazed leopard murder-suicide. After that we needed to rebrand.

You might be wondering, where are all the animals? And to that I say: exactly where they should be. In the wild. Or a little bit down the road on the highway median. But sometimes they come back to the zoo in a Stockholm Syndrome sort of way.

Look, here’s one now! This is Fat Monkey. We don’t give our animals human names because that is degrading to their inherent worth as animals. Fat Monkey climbed into the polar bear exhibit shortly after birth. We thought he was a goner, but the polar bears actually made him their king, so he’s abnormally aggressive and troubled by climate change for a monkey. Oops! There’s that signature Fat Monkey aggression. No no, don’t call for help. This is a natural urge, and it would be unethical to stop him. You are free, Fat Monkey. Free and worthy of life.

Next is our immersive ethical simulation exhibit. We need one volunteer to step into this glassed-in enclosure. Thanks, bud. What’s your name? Brian? Okay now everyone bang on Brian’s glass super hard and we’re gonna flash some lights at him and scream. This is what it’s like to be an animal in confinement. Woah, Brian, chill out pal. No need to get like the 2015 crazed leopard. He has what? Look if Brian knows he has epilepsy he should lead with that before he volunteers for things.

But this teaches us a valuable lesson. Do you think anyone ever asked Fat Monkey if he had epilepsy? No, because we don’t listen to animals. And also, Fat Monkey had severe rabies that made him too dangerous to get close to. But you’d never know that because you’d never ask him.

Ethical Zoo

My greatest dream in life is to perfect the art of grilling. Unfortunately, I am the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, and no one ever wants me to talk about my grilling.

Did you know grilling was invented by the Arawak tribe of the Caribbean in the seventeenth century? These are the kinds of facts I would share if anyone ever asked. Instead, reporters ask me where I’d place myself in the feminist canon as confetti falls from the ceiling, which has nothing to do with grilling.

Grilling is an art that requires superhuman concentration, but I can’t grill one lousy corn cob without some passing rando asking “Hey, aren’t you Nobel laureate Kimmy Rogers? Your book changed my life! I got sober because of you.” I look up for one second, and when I look down, poof, the corn’s charred beyond recognition.

The second book I ever wrote won the Nobel. Can you believe my luck? Now I am never writing another book again. My first book was a compilation of three-hundred and fifty-seven variations on ham hock. It sold moderately well. I was proud of it. Then I went and did something stupid. I tried something new and wrote a literary epic about intergenerational trauma that won the Nobel Prize.

Now they make me stand behind polished cedar podiums, like some sick joke—wood like that belongs on a grill, not under a Nobel laureate—and pose for author photos on the press tour. I smile with all my teeth and none of my heart. I sneak out at 3 a.m. to grill flank steaks in the hotel parking lot, just to feel like myself again in between book signings.

My only real fan is Triple Baste George, who lives in Kansas. Last week, he emailed me a photo of a finished ham hock from the early days. #329. I cried tears of joy. He’s a real one, from the good old days. Life was good then. Grilling was good. It was the spring of ’98, and I had just figured out how to make the perfect mesquite. There was music in the air, and you could taste the promise of chicken thighs crisping when the skin puffs up just so—I’m going to stop writing before this wins another stupid Nobel Prize in Literature.

My greatest dream in life is to perfect the art of grilling...

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