PERHAPS
MY PICKUP LINES
NEED WORK.
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If I were a saccharimeter, and a lab technician in the research-and-development department of a major candy manufacturer's headquarters were to place me in you (but not in a dirty way, for you are simply the syrupy base for a potential new candy product, and I am just an instrument that can help determine your level of sweetness), the reading would be so far off the Brix scale that the technician would not, in good conscience, be able to recommend that the company proceed with manufacturing you on a large scale, for you would be much too cloying and, as further analysis would prove, quite dangerous to the target demographic of children aged 8 to 14 (but I, on the other hand, would find you perfectly sweet).
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If I were diabetic—and, judging by my family history, my eating habits, and my elevated fasting glucose levels, chances are good that I am well on my way—and I were to eat you (again, not in an improper way but in an honest-to-goodness-my-blood-sugar-is-dropping-and-I-really-need-to-eat-something-fast way), there would be a good chance that after just one nibble of you, my pancreas would experience such a shock and my sugar levels would soar to such astronomical levels that I would enter a state of hyperglycemia and would suffer the related horrible effects, culminating in a hyperosmolar nonketotic coma, which means that I would be in severe trouble should you not take me to the emergency room immediately—but it would all be worth it, as long as I came out of it relatively unharmed—and I would have a second nibble, for your sweetness is an elixir that I could not live without, no matter the risks.
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If I were again to eat you and again out of hunger and nothing more, but this time my pancreas was a perfectly functioning one that secreted the proper amount of insulin, and I had a pretty standard health-insurance plan with average dental coverage, the snack of you would have repercussions for months to come, for I would visit my dentist and he would diagnose me with a heretofore unseen aggressive form of advanced tooth decay, and he would be alarmed at the rate at which my teeth had rotted since eating you, and he wouldn't believe that I brush my teeth three times a day and floss twice daily (admittedly, the flossing is a lie), and my teeth would be so pitted and hole-ridden and gruesome that he wouldn't believe I've never done crystal meth, and I would fall deeper into credit-card debt to pay for the enormous amounts of dental work required because of how sweet you are.
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If you were a new breed of chili pepper, you would be shiny and exotic and have nice smooth skin, and I would slice you in half and remove your stem but keep the inner ribbing and seeds (where the heat of the pepper is concentrated), which would prove to be a huge mistake, for I would mince you and add you to the ground turkey mixture that I'd be cooking and using as the filling for my low-fat baked empanadas, and I'd take one taste and immediately regret not researching the Scoville rating of you-as-a-pepper (which would somehow rank higher than pure capsaicin), and I'd begin to sweat and tear because you are so damn hot, and you'd think I was gross and had some sort of glandular problem, and I'd take the knife I used to slice you in your chili form and I'd plunge that knife into my heart because I couldn't bear it if you found me repulsive.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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Perhaps My Pickup Lines Need Work By Frank Ferri
Failing at Flirting With the Hot Girl at the Office Where My Friend Works By Dan Kennedy
The Return of Dud Durden: Our Second Electrangulations E-Book
Jane Eyre Runs for President By Sean Carman
The Conflicted History of the Wave By Michael Rottman
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