30
Nov
09

Oh, I’m not mean, Kevin. This is just the worst date I’ve ever been on in my life

(please note, the names in this letter have been changed to protect the identity of the retarded)

Dear Kevin,

First of all, allow me to extend the warmest of thanks for your thinly veiled attempt to induce me to sleep with you, otherwise known as “invitation to drinks.” Or, to be more precise by using your exact language—and really, why shouldn’t we—“quick drinks.”

Now, truth be told, Kevin, I wasn’t exactly frothing at the bit to go out with you. In all actuality, my acceptance of aforementioned “quick drinks” invitation was motivated more by a juvenile need to satisfy my wayward ego than any real attraction to you. I mean, let’s be honest. You’re an ass. It’s the reason I didn’t sleep with you the first go round. But I’m saying—“quick drinks?” Not only am I to understand that a meal is not even to be considered, but are you suggesting that I have to rush through the shit I do get? Am I to take exceedingly large gulps, Kev? Is that it? Should I have brought my funnel and bucket, Kev? I coulda just put them right atop the table, Kev. You know, in the spot where THE FOOD would usually be on any normal date, you mouth-breathing asshole.

But I digress.

Now, Kev, I’m nobody’s virgin. I freely acknowledge that. But I’m nobody’s tramp either.

Wait.

Scratch that last part.

“Nobody’s” was strong.

Whatever, minutiae. The point is that I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to contemplate ALOUD what you suspect I “like” during more intimate moments. It’s rude, Kevin. It’s rude , and ungentlemanly, and frankly, now that I’m viewing our nearly 25 year difference in age with more clear, not-fresh-off-of-a-breakup-and-desperately-in-need-of-an-esteem-builder eyes, it’s rather…well, honestly, Kevin, it’s fucking gross. Now, I’m sure I only imagined that liver spot on your left hand when you removed the kerchief from your sports jacket to wipe down your bi-focals. Be that as it may, you can bet your tart geriatric ass I’m not sticking around to ascertain the effects of gravitational pull on aged ballskin. I’d rather scratch my eyes out with this fork I’m not using for the dinner you didn’t allow me to order.

Kevin, when I left to go to the water closet, I didn’t do so to grant you an opportunity to change your seat from opposite me to beside me in the booth. Promise. I left because I had to pee, Kevin. I had to relieve myself. I’d hit that second Manhattan kinda hard when you dropped the word “nipple” earlier (I’ll be 29 in 3 days, and I profess to having never had a man even hint at that word on a date in all these years. Apparently, 29 is to be a year of firsts. I for damn sure now know that 28 is a year of lasts. Thanks for that, by the way.). So, right. It wasn’t an elaborate ruse to get you closer to me. I just had to pee.

That being said, you should know that I’m a real woman with mine, Kevin. And when I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong. And in the spirit of equanimity and honesty, I admit that you were right about me being rude and unladylike when I told you to get the fuck up off me. I was wrong for that. I was. If I’d had a problem with our restructured table arrangement, I should have simply assumed what was your seat before you planted your arrogant ass in my spot, in some underhanded attempt to rub your janky oldness all up on me (btw, as you no doubt deduced by my horrified reaction, that move should register as a complete FAIL). In my defense, I prefaced my request with a “please,” which I sincerely thought took some of the sting out of my f-bomb. Although you didn’t disagree outright, I didn’t have to really strain my imagination to finish the “You can be such a mean ….” that you mumbled, you know, after you got the fuck up off me.

But in an exciting turn of events, you rebounded with such unbridled enthusiasm, that I can’t help but commend your chutzpah. Really, Kevin, I mean it. That ego of yours is something for the ages. It is truly one resilient sonofabitch. That thing could withstand nuclear holocaust. It’s too big. It’s too wide. It’s too strong. It won’t fit. That’s how impressive that thing is. Cause you came back swinging with that suggestion that we go back to my place for “dessert.” And just so you know, my open-mouthed silence should not have been misinterpreted as an ignorance of the geographic proximity of our restaurant to my place. I know where my house is, Kevin. I just showered in that bitch before I came here. No, no. I was taken aback (and really, though I’ve used this turn of phrase before, I profess to having never sincerely meant it until only now when describing my visceral reaction to your use of the word “dessert.” Seriously. I thought people only said that shit on t.v.) by the sheer audacity of your request. I mean, you bring me to a restaurant, where I can’t eat. You line every remark I make and every remark you make with sexually suggestive undertones. You try to shock me and appear young-seeming with your inappropriate anatomical references. You try to effectuate the ole one two one two with the switcharoo seat maneuver. And to top it all off, you got the nerve to be old as a motherfucker. And you want ass, Kevin? You want ass? Really?

You must be out of your mind.

Way to go full retard on the date, Kev. Congratulations. I’m officially six paces closer to homosexuality.

Regards,

Unflinchingly Disgusted

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4 Responses to “Oh, I’m not mean, Kevin. This is just the worst date I’ve ever been on in my life”


  1. November 30, 2009 at 7:15 pm

    The is something remarkable about the singularly focused, the men who aren’t burdened with nuanced thought. Perhaps his persistence will benefit him in other parts of his life.

  2. 2 mcvay
    November 30, 2009 at 9:36 pm

    just an FYI
    had ol’ KevyKev succeeded and tapped dat ass
    I would’ve had to re-evaluate my entire ‘female-interaction’ approach/game and adopted Kevin’s strategy
    bc one equation that IS extremely hot in the streetz these dayz (especially during the recession)
    is the formula that goes…..”quick drinks” + free dessert = ass
    That’s a winner every day of the week and twice on Saturdays

  3. 3 sandysays1
    December 1, 2009 at 12:56 pm

    I once knew a German Shepard with a similar philosophy to your buddy Kev. He was offering less than half of a partly masticated “Milk Bone.” It sure didn’t make my tail twitch. http://www.sandysays1.wordpress.com

  4. 4 Donn
    November 5, 2010 at 1:56 pm

    OK, I’m not seeing a conceivable reason in hell you took this assignment on. Your ego COULD IN NO WAY have been in THIS much trouble.


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