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Plus, Warren’s girl number two was totally at the other end of the spectrum. Superskinny, with a rack as flat as a surfboard, and a hook nose that suggested a strong relation to the bald eagle.

Pencil-dick himself emerges from the cabana with a satisfied grin. He sits down at the table and takes a long drag from his beer. Matthew, Jack, and I just stare at him.

He looks back and forth between us. “What?”

I jerk my chin toward girl number two as she walks back to her table of equally unattractive friends. Subpars tend to stick together.

“What’s with you and the scary sisters?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your first hookup made Snooki look like Miss America. And that last chick is probably next of kin to the Wicked Witch of the West.”

He sneers defensively. “She wasn’t that bad.”

Matthew and Jack cough. “Butter face . . . butter face.”

Warren asks, “What’s a butter face?”

I roll my eyes at his ignorance. “It means everything is hot—but. Her. Face. Get it? And I think that’s pretty generous, considering there’s nothing boner-worthy about a woman with the hips of a ten-year-old boy.”

Jack suggests, “Maybe it’s a fetish. You like to bump uglies with the uglies, Billy?”

“No. I don’t have a thing for ugly girls.”

I beg to differ. Still, I give him the chance to explain himself. “Then why are they the only ones you’re hitting on?”

Warren squirms uncomfortably. “They’re just . . . easier. I like a sure thing.”

Matthew says, “You sold out Giants f*cking Stadium six months ago. For you they should all be sure things.”

Warren avoids eye contact and picks at the label on his beer. “I don’t know. It’s like . . . I was with Kate for a long time . . .”

As if I could f*cking forget.

“. . . and I never really had a chance to practice my skills, you know? And chicks in LA? They’re bitches, man—they’re hot and they know it. So, it’s less intimidating if I stick with the easy scores.”

There’s a story in the Bible about a guy who was a real mean bastard. One day he was walking down the road, and God knocked him on his ass. This blinding light came from the sky, and a booming voice shouted down from the heavens, telling him what he needed to do. How to fix his life.

That’s what this moment is like for me. An epiphany. A divine revelation.

If I can find Warren a girl of his own . . . if I can teach him the secrets of scoring quality pieces of ass . . . maybe he’ll be so distracted, he’ll finally stop sniffing around Kate. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll be rid of him. For good.

I have seen the path to the promised land, boys and girls. And it’s lined with *.

Energized by the prospect of a Warren-less existence, I propose, “I can help you with that, you know.”

“With getting girls?”

I nod. “Getting top-notch girls. The kind of females you’ve only seen in magazines and wet dreams. I can teach you how to make it happen. Once you taste gourmet, you’ll never munch junk food again.”

Jack tells Warren, “Jump all over this, man. You’d be learning from the best. Evans is the master—before he gets married, they should bronze his dick, like DiMaggio’s cleats.”

Jack’s praise is flattering. And a little disturbing.

Still, Warren looks suspicious. “Why would you want to help me?”

I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause—St. Jude always was my favorite saint. Plus, you’re Kate’s little buddy. If I help you out, I score points with her. And that’s always a good thing.”

He seems satisfied with my answer, so I start with the basics. “What’s your game?”

“My what?”

“Your game plan. How do you approach these gorgeous LA women? What do you say?”

He scratches his head, like the dumbf*ck monkey he is. “Well, sometimes I’ll rush over, looking surprised, and I’ll say, ‘Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? That fall from heaven was far.’?”

The guys and I start laughing straightaway. But Warren doesn’t. Then we stop.

I ask, “I’m sorry—were you serious?”

He looks away, slightly pissed. “Forget this.”

I implore him, “No, we won’t laugh anymore. I want to help. What else?”

He debates answering for a second. “Sometimes I tell a joke.”

Matthew looks perplexed. “A joke?”

“Yeah—you know—‘This guy walks into a bar . . .’ Shit like that.”

I nod slowly. “Right. I can see why you think that would work . . . because every woman wants to screw Bozo the Clown.”

Then we start laughing again.

Warren growls, “Fuck you guys. I’m out of here.” He starts to get up.

“Wait—don’t go. Come on, man, we’re just busting your balls.”

Reluctantly Warren sits back down.

I begin my tutorial. “First mistake—you’re trying too hard. Women can smell desperation like a dog smells fear. And to them, it reeks like shit. You have to be calm. Confident. Like . . . when we were kids, Matthew’s uncle used to take us camping. At the campground there was a lake with all these sunnies swimming around, that all the kids would try to catch. There was this one annoying little prick who wanted to catch the most fish—so he brought a net. He’d slam it into the water over and over, but he never caught any fish. He just scared them away. I, on the other hand, would bring a little bag of bread crumbs. I’d drop in just a few at a time—a small taste. Then I’d sit back and wait. After a minute or two, all the fish would come to me. You see what I’m saying?”