Today, while sitting in a coffee shop working, a cute girl walked in. Like any creature with enough testosterone to be rightly designated as “male,” I looked at her for a few seconds, idly wondered what she might look like naked, then moved on with my life. The whole process took under five seconds and was hardly noteworthy.
Minutes later, I’d completely forgotten about the girl and was just about to begin closing the seventeen windows I had open and really buckle down and focus dammit — tap tap, I turn and see the same cute girl tapping on my shoulder.
“Hello, would you mind I ask a favor?” she said in a nice accent I would later learn was French-Canadian. I must have nodded my head because she then asked if she might quickly plug her phone into my computer to charge it enough so she could use it. She was stranded in Santa Monica and needed to be in Reseda where she was couch-surfing and needed to contact her friend and—
“Yes, of course, absolutely,” I said. After all, everyone knows that no one is more willing to help cute French-Canadian girls who are stranded in Santa Monica and couch-surfing in Reseda then yours truly (Me. Andrew Stephen Genser).
So she pulls out her iPhone cord, hooks it up to her phone and hands it to me to plug in when I think — wait a minute. Is this a scam? This isn’t my first time around the block you cute French-Canadian girl who is stranded in Santa Monica and couch-surfing in Reseda (fine, I’ll just call her a CFCGWISISMACSIR). I plug your phone into my computer and next thing you know you somehow have all my information and days later I get a call from my bank asking me if I spent 30 grand on gold-encrusted beaver pelts (a classic French-Canadian indulgence). So my concern for my bank account as well as the dwindling beaver population of Los Angeles manifests itself in the form of the blurted out sentence, “Uh, wait, this isn’t like gonna give you my stuff, is it?” She shook her head no. She was legit. Everyone knows a criminal would have had to answer yes.
So she sits down across from me – where she can’t see my Laptop screen – and I plug her phone in. Immediately things start popping open; namely, iTunes and iPhoto. Crap, here we go, it IS going to start, like, giving you my stuff, isn’t it? I quickly close iTunes then click over to iPhoto and — wait, these aren’t my photos. I’ve never been in that foreign-seeming bar smiling at the camera, nor have I been lying under the covers smirking while someone with knuckle tattoos stroked my hair, and I DEFINITELY haven’t been standing completely naked in front of that mirror with my beautiful breasts being gra — and I quickly clicked off iPhoto. Yup, these were her photos. The cute French-Canadian girl who is stranded in — sorry, the CFCGWISISMACSIR, who I had so gallantly rescued in her time of need, and who had so suddenly entered my life when I idly wondered what she might look like naked, had made sure I had to wonder no more. Her phone was trying to upload her pictures to my computer.* Sitting across from me was this beautiful, completely clothed stranger, and yet if I looked one inch down at my computer screen, I could see the same beautiful stranger completely unclothed.
It was the closest I’ll ever come to having X-Ray Vision.
*no, I’m a gentleman, I did not actually upload.