Girls love me. Since my first day at Cornell, when I enchanted the comely R.A.s with my rendition of “In Da Club,” girls have always gravitated toward me. Maybe it’s my large, luscious lips. Maybe it’s my boyish charm. Maybe it’s my terroir. In any case, something seems to work out for me. I’ve got more dates than I know what to do with.

I know what you’re saying to the person in front of you on the salad line. Here’s another one of those Sun columnists who thinks he’s all hot, who’s trying to parlay wordplay into play. He’s got no chance. I’ve seen him at the Palms. I’ve seen him at Dino’s. I’ve even seen him at the sake salon. This kid isn’t Casanova. He isn’t even Wilt Chamberlain. I should stop reading.

I’ve written three columns in my Sun career, and I’m out of ideas. So I’ve resorted to stealing other people’s i.e. Missy Kurzweil ’07. Let me explain. Basically, I snared the column so I could write about Gerald Ford, and then the Man told me that I had to keep writing. So I wrote about Manos Diner. I wrote some long-winded, half-baked rant about weathermen. The editors, especially former editor in chief Erica Fink ’07, weren’t impressed. They also said I give too many shoutouts. Shoutout to David Fine ’07.

Last Thursday, I went out with The Presidential Re-enactor (TPR). At first, I thought her shtick was a little strange. Which president does she impersonate? (Obvious joke: Hillary isn’t president yet!) It can’t be Grant, because he had a beard, and I’m just not into girls with beards. I was curious, so I asked her out. Maybe she would go as Hoover, in which case I had a great vacuum/Great Depression joke lined up, and I was even going to buy her a drink to see if she’d break Prohibition.

Alas, she was a Nixon. We went to Hai Hong, because of the whole Nixon going to China thing. I couldn’t focus on the conversation because of 1) TPR’s slicked back, receding hairline, 2) TPR’s weird, vaguely anti-Semitic grimaces, and 3) I was really trying to come up with a Watergate pun the entire time. I even ordered water chestnuts ($9.25) as my main course, because I figured that I could then make a joke about the fast service and how they were really “breaking out of the gate,” but it took 40 minutes, and then I had a plate of water chestnuts.

Dinner with Tricky Dick actually wasn’t too bad. At one point, she put her hand on the table and stared into my eyes, gazing at me lovingly. I reached for her feminine hand as I examined her face, beaten as it was by scandal and scumminess. “TPR,” I asked, “Are you always a Nixon?” “No,” she said, her face contorting into a cute, but hopelessly unpresidential, smile. “Sometimes I go as Al Gore.” Then she started laughing really hard, that pained laugh when people remember the 2000 election and how that whole Bush-as-president thing worked out. An inconvenient truth, indeed.

The next night was less weird. I’d been set up with an attractive, slim platinum blonde. When I called to ask her out, she mentioned that she was The Over Eater (TOE) so she probably wouldn’t be able to come back to my place afterwards because of indigestion. Great advance excuse-making, I thought to myself. This date’s got potential. TOE and I went to the Chinese Buffet on Route 13.

You’ve seen the ads for Chinese Buffet — over 200 items! Chinese food! Sushi! Ice cream! I’d always been curious, and I figured this was as good a time as any. We sat among loud families. I always like to have children present on dates, so I can high-five them and show the girl that I’m good with kids. Sometimes the parents stare. Sometimes they call the cops.

TOE wasn’t inspired, though, by my choice of restaurant. I could see her eyes rolling behind her Gucci sunglasses as she chomped away. As I stared at my visage in her black eyes, I realized that TOE was using me for a free smorgasbord of revolting food ($7.99 minus 10 percent coupon). I finished my egg foo sundae, lied through my teeth about having a great time and drove her home. What a waste of eight bucks.

I was sick of Chinese food by this point, so I decided that my third date of the weekend would have to be solidly American. The lucky lady, whom I had met at an orientation party and forgotten about for six months, had creamy skin, a bright yellow outfit (she looked like the guy from Curious George) and big red pearls. I was happy just looking at her. This is going to be a great date, I thought. But then I learned the bad news: She was The Negative Nancy (TNN).

I was thinkin’ Arby’s, mostly because three dates on a weekend can really stretch my wallet. Maybe that’s why she was so negative. I opened up with a story about how my dad can play “Three Blind Mice” on the accordion, which I’ve always counted on as one of my safest moves.

She wasn’t impressed. “So he played the accordion. Great. What does that do for me?” Ouch. No wonder you’re single.

It only got worse from there. After making fun of my beloved Jeep, she excused herself and entered the dimly-lit Arby’s restroom. I was in the midst of muddying up her Beef ‘n’ Cheddar (combo $4.99) when I heard a scream. TNN stormed out of the bathroom. “Take me home!” she yelled with the force of a misbehaved hurricane. Everyone in the restaurant stared at us. A mother covered her seven-year-old son’s ears, certain that a wave of profanity was coming.

But I always know how to defuse a Negative Nancy. I fell to one knee and withdrew from my pocket a RingPop I’d been saving for a dire situation like this. “Will you marry me?” I asked. The whole restaurant burst into applause. Even the woman behind the counter stopped wiping her nose with her gloves to give me a thumbs-up.

While TNN pondered this request that was, to say the least, unexpected, I grabbed what was left of my curly fries and fled the restaurant. Sure, the date had been a failure. But TNN was stranded at Arby’s, I had my curly fries, and TPR was waiting for me at a local speakeasy.

Shoutout to Gerald Ford.

Justin Weitz is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be reached at jdw42@cornell.edu. Free Weitz appears alternate Wednesdays.