She ain't trippin on you...

...she'd rather fuck your car.

So goes the hook on a rhyme from one of my old school favorites, Too Short. Dude ain't lyrically brilliant, but he kept it real. And as I found out the other day, he may never have kept it realer (yea, I got a degree in English and I said "realer") than on the aforementioned song.

Short puts it down in this one right here, explaining in his Oakland, Ca., vernacular his understanding of the fact that with some women, no matter how genuinely attracted to you they might appear to be, said attraction ain't always what it seems. Yeah, she's feelin you, givin vibes, flirting, lettin you know you can get the math if not more, if only you'll speak up (manlaw note: closed mouths don't get fed). But with our egos, we men rarely stop to consider that it may not be us, in whole or in part, that she's attracted to. She might have caught you on a good day, rockin that suit that hangs off your shoulders just right, fresh from the chop shop with a new shapeup, or caught your glance from the window of that rented 300C you borrowed from your cousin and just came from getting detailed.

You got that look, that flirt, that number. Kudos. But she ain't trippin on you, she'd rather fuck your car.

Fast forward: I'm chillin with a homegirl of mine, talking about the Manlaw blog, which prompts her to break tradition and let me in on a lil rule of womanlaw, at least as she sees it. She dishes that an unwritten rule of hers is that she never, ever talks to a dude whose eye she catches if the dude is getting into our out of, say, the new AMG-kitted S-Class. Sounds counterintuitive -- women like dudes with nice whips -- until you consider her next sentiment, which was that from that moment on, she never knows whether or not it was the guy or the fact that the guy had the car that turned her on in that instant. That she wouldn't want to find herself sitting across from the dinner table with a dude wondering whether if she'd be there had the cat hopped off the Orange line instead of into sum'n that cost more than a downpayment on a nice crib.

She wouldn't want to wind up in the act with this dude and have to wonder: am i screwing him or his car? Get it?

Long story short, fellas: I ain't sayin' look a gift horse in the mouth. If you ridin' nice and that increases your shooting percentage from the floor, I'm all in favor. But with all things in life, ego can blind you to the angles you need to be able to see in order to know how to play your position right. Perhipheral vision is a proverbial muhfucca.

Manlaw: "No need to be a player or a superstar... She ain't trippin on you she'd rather fuck your car."

-PGS