Who in his right mind thinks loitering outside of ice cream parlors at midnight is an effective way to meet chicks?

Unless you’re Brad Pitt or that dude from Twilight (not that one, the other one) odds are you’re just going to creep everyone out, especially when you’re sporting a pastel polo and a creepy grin — common attributes of a playground pedophile.

Last night, I went out for some late-night fro-yo (that’s cool-kid speak for frozen yogurt) and made it just before the place closed. There were a few stoned kids sucking on sample cups inside, and a couple stragglers scraping the last bits from their containers, wishing they hadn’t eaten so fast.

This place is self-serve (pay by the ounce) so I packed my container as full as physics would allow and made my way outside to sit among the others, who eyed me and my fresh stash with envy.

“Heeeey,” I heard.

I turned to my left to see an older man wearing glasses, a comb-over and Dockers hemmed an inch too high who made a without-a-doubt choreographed “Why don’t you join me” motion with his hand, followed by a head nod and a toothy smile.

His table was spotless, and there was no evidence of frozen yogurt consumption. I swear I smelled chloroform.

The sidewalk could have been crawling with cockroaches and his chair laden with million-dollar bills, and I still would’ve chosen to eat my frozen treat sitting on the ground.

Sure, maybe he was a perfectly friendly guy with acceptable intentions, but if it looks like a duck, smells like a duck, and sounds like a duck — it’s probably a rapist. That’s an adage to live by.

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