He slicked his hair back.
He sprayed his mouth with Listerine.
Damn, he looked good.
He sauntered over to the barstool next to a woman.
A beautiful woman.
Damn, she looked good.
“Hey,” he called to the bartender, “gimme a dry martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
He looked at the woman, pretending to have just noticed her.
“Hey, barkeep,make that a double.”
His eyes followed her curves like a convicted rapist.
“So,” he asked, handing her her drink, “are your parents retarded?”
“Excuse me?” She scoffed.
“Because you sure are special.”

Martinis are rather hard to get out of a suit jacket.