Extra Warnings 1

So this dude was sitting at the bar the other day when he said that he hates the fact that, “all Chinese girls have a lot of hair down there.” And I said dude, how many girls have you been with? Then I asked the girl behind the bar for a jisuanji, whereupon she just rolled her eyes at me. She’d obviously seen me do something like this before. So I lightly slammed the calculator on the bar, and said let me put it to you this way my man. If there are 7 million people here in Hangzhou, and let’s say that 45% of them are women, that makes 3.15 million women. What percentage of those women would you say you’d be attracted to? He said 10%, which of course means that he was trying to impress me, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, I agreed, and did the numbers, which leaves us with 315 thousand women. And then I used my trusty jisuanji, to do a little more math, and divided that by the number of days in a year which equals 863 women a day for a year, or rather to put into less Wilt Chamberlain-like terms, that’s 86 women a day for the next 10 years. Now dude, I told him, just because you’ve been with a few girls out in Binjiang, doesn’t mean that they represent all Hangzhou girls, let alone, all Chinese girls, so think before you speak now will you? You’ve got to look my friend because there’s got to be a girl for you. This cage is huge—to quote an old Chinese proverb—and it’s got all types of birds—no pun intended—in it.

It’s like I how I used to talk about the taxi drivers around town. I used to despise them all to put it lightly, but every now and then, I would find a great one, and then another one, and then one more. It got to the point where I was more often than not disappointed, but pleasantly surprised when that needle in the haystack appeared. And there are only around 16 thousand taxi drivers here in Hangzhou alone which equals, pull out the jisuanji, 5% the number of available women around town. I’ve seen women with shaved underarms, women who have Buckwheat in a headlock, women with a groomed downstairs, ones with Troy Polamalu in a jujitsu leg lock, a few who looked like they were trying to smuggle watermelons under their shirts, and others who made me look buxom myself. All, of course, before I met my wife. And what’s the problem anyway? Nothing a little trip to the bathroom can’t solve. It’s like asking the taxi driver to slow down. Though they might not always do it, on the rare occasion, they just might, do we really need to get that calculator out again?

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