Tige

anthropology pick up lines

"Are you a carbon sample? Because I want to date you."

"Are you happy to see me or is that a trowel in your pocket?"

"Baby, you make this Homo erectus."

"I used to have a trophy wife, but you're kula. Ring me."

"Let's have a debate: I'll be a cultural relativist and you can adopt the missionary position."

"You like petrology? Well, check out this cleavage!"

"Did it hurt when you fell from your culture's dogmatic view of an afterlife?"

"I like my women like I like my DNA helicase, unzipping my genes."

"I find your culture fascinating...I'd like to learn more about your mating rituals."

"If I told you that you had some nice secondary sex characteristics, would you hold them against me?"

"Voulez-vous code-mix avec moi, ce soir?"

"I'll run my lingus across your alveolar ridge and give you a fricative you won't BELIEVE."

(linguistics only)“If you want to get with me you have to be a cunning linguist.”

"Holy shit! Wanna coprolite?"

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Not a pick up line, but still amusing: "Historical archaeologists have an easier time getting a date than prehistoric archaeologists."

Not sure what this is classified as:

"Are you Goodall? Benedict my Mauss in my Levi-Strauss. Leakey? Not my Foucault. Snow what I mean? On the Whorf we drink our Mead and watch the ships Sahlins away. I do Labov you."
Tige

Stigma

"Over and over again I forgot what I had seen in the mirror. It could not penetrate into the interior of my mind and become an integral part of me. I felt as if it had nothing to do with me; it was only a disguise. But it was not the kind of disguise which is put on voluntarily by the person who wears it, and which is intended to confuse other people as to one's identity. My disguise had been put on me without my consent or knowledge like the ones in fairy tales, and it was I myself who was confused by it, as to my own identity. I looked in the mirror, and was horror-struck because I did not recognize myself. In the place where I was standing, with that persistent romantic elation in me, as if I were a favored fortunate person to whom everything was possible, I saw a stranger, a little, pitiable, hideous figure, and a face that became, as I stared at it, painful and blushing with shame. It was only a disguise, but it was on me, for life. It was there, it was there, it was real. Every one of those encounters was like a blow on the head. They left me dazed and dumb and senseless every time, until slowly and stubbornly my robust persistent illusion of well-being and of personal beauty spread all through me again, and I forgot the irrelevant reality and was all unprepared and vulnerable again..."

-- "The Little Locksmith" by K.B. Hathaway