The Pick-up Artist

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Hi, my name's Jack Jericho.

Hi. Hi, my name's Jack Jericho.

Has anyone ever told you you have the face

of a Botticelli and the body of a Degas?

Hi. Hi. Hi.

Hi.

Hi. Hi.

Forgive me for intruding on you,

but I may never run into you again

and may never know who you are so we

can fulfill our destiny together on this planet.

What's your name? Eileen? Eileen?

God. Great name. God, brilliant name.

What's that?

How kind, really.

God, I love the way you said that.

Eileen, can I be bold enough

to ask you for your phone number?

Write it down? I have a photographic

memory for everything important.

If your number isn't the most important seven

digits in the cosmos, I don't know what is.

Look, I must run, but let me assure you...

this is only the beginning.

Excuse me. My name's Jack Jericho.

I saw what you just did.

I want to say one thing, then I'll disappear

and we'll never see each other again, OK?

- I love how you say that. What's your name?

- Karen.

Karen. That's a phenomenal name.

Here's what was on my mind.

I think you should get a medal.

You were brave, graceful and totally right.

I wish I had a camera.

Guys like that

give meeting strangers a bad name.

It was a personal affront to me cos

I have a vested interest in meeting strangers.

Every woman that I've ever liked,

communed with or given great satisfaction to

started off as a stranger,

and only became known to me

because I followed the impulse I felt

when I saw her, and said, politely:

"Hi, I'm Jack Jericho. I like you.

Do you like me?"

In the name of men who truly appreciate,

desire and respect women,

allow me to apologize for that buffoon,

and to wish you great luck and good fortune.

Wait. Jack.

- Yeah.

- That was very nice. Thank you.

- You're welcome. May I ask you a question?

- OK.

- Can I have your number?

- Got a pen?

I have a memory.

I never forget something important.

- 689-2751.

- Great pleasure meeting you.

- Bye, Jack.

- Bye, Karen.

689-2751. Karen.

Hi. My name's Jack Jericho. I couldn't help

noticing this outfit and the way you walk,

which is very exciting,

and your terrific haircut,

and this great-looking dog. Hi.

- Is he dangerous?

- Depends.

- My name's Jack Jericho.

- You said that.

- I did. What's your dog's name?

- Caligula.

Great name. And yours?

Doesn't really matter, does it?

Not at all. Maybe we'll

run into each other again sometime.

- First American colony.

- Jamestown.

- What year?

- 1607.

- Hello.

- Hi.

- Stan wants to see you.

- When?

Tomorrow morning. He's meeting the board

today to decide next year's faculty.

- Of which I am or am not going to be a part?

- Doesn't look good.

- Why? What happened?

- He wouldn't tell me.

- Thinks I tell you everything he says.

- You do, don't you?

Thanks.

- How do you do that?

- I could eat fire for you, Pat.

- I better go straighten out Stan.

- Bye.

- Hey, Jack.

- Hey, Billy.

- Throat's spelled o-a-t.

- My brother sucks at spelling.

- You weren't in school yesterday.

- Hi, Stan.

I had a sore throat. That's my excuse.

- Where are your parents?

- London.

- Pat said you want a word with me.

- I'm afraid so.

Talk to me. Richie, take Paul and Terry.

Get the equipment. Baseball in three minutes.

OK, Mr. Jericho.

Jack, does the name Doris Merchant

mean anything to you?

Doris... Doris, Doris, Doris, Doris...

The mother of Stephen Merchant Jr.

- He's in my third-grade...

- Gym class.

Did you tell Stephen Merchant's mother

that she had the face of a Chagall

and the body of a Rubens?

Did you?

Jack, you might also want to know

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