Dear Glutton for Punishment,
I have just staggered into the door from my second date with whatâs-his-name, and had the uncontrollable urge to sit right down and write MYSELF a letter â {I know Iâve heard that before⊠maybe a song?} So here I am â pen in hand, bottle of cyanide in the other, awaiting the after-shock to slam dunk me into what I hope will be a permanent state of coma. After today, itâs the only place to be.
It started out more promising than the first engagement â The entire neighborhood lined up on my front lawn as if waiting for a parade to come through. As I walked out my front door, my neighbors began shouting cheers and accolades of praise to me; the children clapped their hands in enthusiastic glee; the teenagers gave me the âthumbs upâ motion as they nodded their heads in approving unison! Even our neighborhood church minister had his hands outstretched in the air waving motions of a blessing, as they all watched me drive off in my car for this âfool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on meâ date.
But the optimism for a successful second date soon vanished as a disturbing omen came into focus in my rear view mirror: these same neighbors - hypocrites all! - wagering bets as money exchanged hands - hands that were pointing at me as I drove off; as gales of laughter wafted across the neighborhood â with the ministerâs wife keeping score as the bookie. I have now given the term, âa long shotâ a whole new meaning, Iâm sure.
I arrived at his place at the agreed upon time, only to find myself banging on his door until my knuckles matched the crimson shade of nailpolish I was wearing. I knew he was home; his TV was on {I could see a porno tape playing through the doorâs pane of glass that I just broke in my zeal to announce my presence.} By the time he arrived to answer, I had lost two of my acrylic nails in the Door vs. Glutton for P. match. It was a unanimous decision: the door had won.
He greeted me at the door in what Iâm certain was his âIâm-Too- Sexy âFor- Myselfâ look; a pair of bright green speedoâs with a four-leaf clover on the jewels pouch and the words: âToday is YOUR Lucky Day!â Oh, yeah, letâs not forget the argyle knee socks to compliment the ensemble - did you get that?
*** A R G Y L E *** KNEE *** SOCKS ***
I entered his home out of masochistic curiosity to see what the finishing touches to this New Wave Armani creation would be, and tripped over manâs best friend â or, to be more accurate, Dickheadâs ONLY friend, a mangy, mobile flea farm of a mutt named âSlobberâ, who, when eye contact was met, jumped up on my $65.00 Nautica top and commenced to suck face with me; leaving a waterfall of drool, canned dog food, and my eye makeup cascading down the front of said shirt.
After the tackle was complete, the dander matted linebacker lumbered over to the sofa, where he promptly dug a deeper hole into the couch cushion; a geyser of foam spraying into the air; and made himself a cozy niche to gingerly lick his balls.
It was at this time Dickhead offered me a chair while he finished dressing. I have to give him some credit - he did not suggest I sit next to Slobber to watch him clean up his ah...uhmm... act, but rather, on a beanbag chair that looked more like a puddle of melted gummi bears that was inflated to a maximum of six inches from the floor. I graciously declined, and stood watching in total disbelief as Mr. Fashion Statement continued dressing; reaching underneath the crater shaped, drool drenched, flea infested, dog dandruff- filled cushion and whipped out something that he ⊠that he⊠put ⊠on⊠over⊠his headâŠ
I hadnât seen something this scurvy since the picture of Aqualung on the album cover.
My lower jaw still hurts - hours later â from bunji jumping from its hinges as my mind tried to reject in self preservation, what my bugged- out eyes informed me was really happening - he was going to WEAR this rag!!!
Dejavu` of the greasy spoon hit me - in both my memory - and my stomach â as I asked him if I may use his bathroom {I was relieved to find out I didnât have to run across the backyard to a wooden lean-to to woof up my cookies}. Once the waves of nausea subsided and I assured myself I wouldnât have to worship the porcelain god for the rest of the day, I fell to the weakness of the nosy first time house guest- I attempted to see what miracles of medical science were behind that one little metal doorâŠTHE MEDICINE CABINET.
I had planned to be excruciatingly discreet in dissecting the shelves without his knowledge {after all, he was totally engrossed in pulling his one-of-a-kind savvy ensemble together} to gain insight into the hygienic life {if there was such a thing} of my host.
I cautiously and quietly opened the door to an otherwise normal mirrored bathroom chest, and stared in utter horror at what lay in Pandoraâs BoxâŠ
The first shelf contained little more than the average fares found on a bathroom shelf; toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream, Band-Aids; all normal- all boring. As my eyes ascended to the second, third, and fourth shelves, it became apparent my fashion freak had more things to worry about than his apparel; he was obviously doctoring that age-old malady ofâŠJOCK ITCH.
There were creams, ointments, lotions, gels, wipe-on pads, and sprays; medications in bottles, tubes, jars, dispensers and aerosol cans; large size, small size, trial size, economy size; institutional size; every imaginable brand in the pharmaceutical industry â globally - was in this one cabinet for this one skeevy condition.
As I closed the cabinet with the adage of âignorance is blissâ reverberating in my head, I caught a look at my reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back at me resembled that of a prisoner who is on Death Row, as the last minuteâs attempt to stay the execution are met with a recorded message on the Governorâs line saying, â No one is available to take your call at this timeâ. I was dead meat.
I sat on the edge of the tub; head held in my hands; as I closed my eyes and visualized the fashion plateâs cock all shriveled up; lumpy and bumpy; a sickly shade of green - the same shade of green as the four leaf clover on his bikinis; his manhoodâs appendage looking exactly like a delicatessen barrel pickle. A tiny, soggy, twisted pickle. A wrinkled, baby gherkin pickle.
I exhaled a long breath; praying that God would just end my romantically challenged butt and detonate my brain with a clot. I guess God was busy with other more pressing issues, and never answered my plea, so after a few more minutes of waiting for my badda bing â badda doom, I reluctantly got up, and walked back out to The Rocky Horror Show.
I realized Dickhead had evidently been struck with a cerebral cramp himself, and actually decided not to wear the treasure of a tee that his scavenger hunt beneath the sofa cushion uncovered. He had his back to me; bending over the Champion of Saliva to hook him to a leash; as I exited the Room of Remedies for Cock Shock, and saw the image screen- printed to the back of the âon second thoughtâ shirt...
It appeared to be a HUGE naked ass; bent over; so big it took up the entire width of the tee. And something was protruding out of the ass; something with hair... and... a face?