Warning, this blog is inappropriate for reading – seriously
An open letter to the lame chick at the bar that decided to make fun of my hair.
In case you got so ridiculously shit-faced at the bar tonight and don’t recall the incident that provoked this letter, I’ll refresh your memory. In passing me at the bar, while dragging the less attractive friend you have undoubtedly had since high school to make yourself feel more secure about your own fleeting looks, (yes, I noticed the years of tanning have left you with premature wrinkles that you undoubtedly already hope botox will solve) you decided you interrupt my conversation with friends to let me know that you “like my hair”.
Of course, due to the noise in the bar, which has caused my ear to ring well past my retiring for the evening, I was forced to ask you to repeat your comment because it didn’t seem to make any sense. And so you did, saying the same thing again, then dragging your dumpy friend away to the dance floor to grind like a prostitute. Your comment took me aback. I didn’t understand what caused the unprovoked attack on my genetically induced fleeting hair, and I still don’t. But rest assured, I’m trying to figure it out.
I’m sure that your lack of social decorum is most likely due to your frequent attendance to the ridiculous nightclubs on Granville, where you receive much attention from cha-chi, douche bag guys that treat you more or less like a third, independent hand to lavish their genitals with. I’m sure you have had an easy life in the bar thanks to the way in which your breasts pour from your “bar” shirt, enticing losers to purchase you drinks for a moment’s worth of adoration or thanks, much in the same way a common whore uses her body to solicit cash from strangers.
I’m also sure that your sexuality has been “explored” with many near strangers that have seduced you with what ever it is that can be “discovered” within two hours of the thumping and sweaty confines of the over-sex dance floor, covered in spilled rum and diet cokes and flecks of vomit. I’m sure that the attention you receive tossing your tits around has probably lead you to believe you have some level of superiority over the males that commonly frequent the Royal. But this is where your assumption has definitely made an ass of you and me.
Yes, your jab was sharp, and your delivery was scathing – you succeeded there, but you failed to consider that in order for your comment to truly sting, you would have to have or be something I desired. You failed to understand that though there were many men at the Royal last night that would have seen you as attractive, I was most assuredly not one of them. In fact, despite the way you have decided to flaunt all the features of your toned body like they were different cuts of meat in a butcher’s window, splayed out for the public to gawk at like every other tramp there to “hook up”, you are exactly the opposite of what I find attractive.
You are the kind of woman that will rely heavily on your looks in your early years, despite perhaps even acquiring a university degree, to draw attention from men. You will see the string of one night stands and tawdry failed relationships you experience until your early thirties as fun and exciting until you realize that your beauty has faded and you really have nothing else to offer the world socially besides a complete understanding of which top 40 hits of the 2000’s offer the most opportunity to get Furgalicious and grind your crotch on a stranger’s leg.
You’ll panic and marry the next douche bag you hook up with that actually leaves his real phone number with you in the morning without realizing that you don’t have the social skills to determine that he’s actually an asshole that will probably cheat on you after you gain weight and lose your body to an unplanned pregnancy in the early years of marriage or after he’s inflicted years of emotional and verbal abuse on you and your young child, he’ll finally pop you one when you get too mouthy. After the divorce you’ll be completely unmarketable sexually as an overweight single mother and will think back onto your time in the bar as the best years of your life while your fatherless child becomes part of the next wave of douche bags that frequent the Royal – and the cycle will begin anew.
Or maybe you’ll escape this fate and discover at thirty, that your genitals have become so over sexed and under-respected by the strangers that have frequented it, that they have started to droop or scab. You’ll spend years worrying about whether or not your vulva is still attractive, contemplating which plastic surgery to begin first: your aging face, lifting your now drooping breasts, trimming the fat off your ass, or stuffing your flaccid labia back in. You’ll never be satisfied with your body because you’ll always be thinking of the power you once had as a young bar star “hottie” dancing on a speaker so gold chain wearing losers could look up your skirt.
Either way, I’m sure you’ll have a fitting, karmic fate.
And now for my comeback, the comeback I didn’t bother wasting on you in the bar because you were obviously half way to being shit-faced so you could find the courage to captain your sexuality with some drakar noir wearing dick head that would only see you as a moist sheath for his cock. I hope the guy that managed to wrangle you into bed last night not only abruptly and rudely pushes his way into your out-port with his potentially diseased manhood, but that he also finds the courage to finally pull off a donkey punch so he can brag to his friends the next day and laugh at your expense.
I hope that you end up the cruel and ironic butt of a joke based on the way in which you have sexually exploited yourself to boost your confidence.
Good luck being you, you worthless bitch.
Sincerely,
Mike Fly
In case you got so ridiculously shit-faced at the bar tonight and don’t recall the incident that provoked this letter, I’ll refresh your memory. In passing me at the bar, while dragging the less attractive friend you have undoubtedly had since high school to make yourself feel more secure about your own fleeting looks, (yes, I noticed the years of tanning have left you with premature wrinkles that you undoubtedly already hope botox will solve) you decided you interrupt my conversation with friends to let me know that you “like my hair”.
Of course, due to the noise in the bar, which has caused my ear to ring well past my retiring for the evening, I was forced to ask you to repeat your comment because it didn’t seem to make any sense. And so you did, saying the same thing again, then dragging your dumpy friend away to the dance floor to grind like a prostitute. Your comment took me aback. I didn’t understand what caused the unprovoked attack on my genetically induced fleeting hair, and I still don’t. But rest assured, I’m trying to figure it out.
I’m sure that your lack of social decorum is most likely due to your frequent attendance to the ridiculous nightclubs on Granville, where you receive much attention from cha-chi, douche bag guys that treat you more or less like a third, independent hand to lavish their genitals with. I’m sure you have had an easy life in the bar thanks to the way in which your breasts pour from your “bar” shirt, enticing losers to purchase you drinks for a moment’s worth of adoration or thanks, much in the same way a common whore uses her body to solicit cash from strangers.
I’m also sure that your sexuality has been “explored” with many near strangers that have seduced you with what ever it is that can be “discovered” within two hours of the thumping and sweaty confines of the over-sex dance floor, covered in spilled rum and diet cokes and flecks of vomit. I’m sure that the attention you receive tossing your tits around has probably lead you to believe you have some level of superiority over the males that commonly frequent the Royal. But this is where your assumption has definitely made an ass of you and me.
Yes, your jab was sharp, and your delivery was scathing – you succeeded there, but you failed to consider that in order for your comment to truly sting, you would have to have or be something I desired. You failed to understand that though there were many men at the Royal last night that would have seen you as attractive, I was most assuredly not one of them. In fact, despite the way you have decided to flaunt all the features of your toned body like they were different cuts of meat in a butcher’s window, splayed out for the public to gawk at like every other tramp there to “hook up”, you are exactly the opposite of what I find attractive.
You are the kind of woman that will rely heavily on your looks in your early years, despite perhaps even acquiring a university degree, to draw attention from men. You will see the string of one night stands and tawdry failed relationships you experience until your early thirties as fun and exciting until you realize that your beauty has faded and you really have nothing else to offer the world socially besides a complete understanding of which top 40 hits of the 2000’s offer the most opportunity to get Furgalicious and grind your crotch on a stranger’s leg.
You’ll panic and marry the next douche bag you hook up with that actually leaves his real phone number with you in the morning without realizing that you don’t have the social skills to determine that he’s actually an asshole that will probably cheat on you after you gain weight and lose your body to an unplanned pregnancy in the early years of marriage or after he’s inflicted years of emotional and verbal abuse on you and your young child, he’ll finally pop you one when you get too mouthy. After the divorce you’ll be completely unmarketable sexually as an overweight single mother and will think back onto your time in the bar as the best years of your life while your fatherless child becomes part of the next wave of douche bags that frequent the Royal – and the cycle will begin anew.
Or maybe you’ll escape this fate and discover at thirty, that your genitals have become so over sexed and under-respected by the strangers that have frequented it, that they have started to droop or scab. You’ll spend years worrying about whether or not your vulva is still attractive, contemplating which plastic surgery to begin first: your aging face, lifting your now drooping breasts, trimming the fat off your ass, or stuffing your flaccid labia back in. You’ll never be satisfied with your body because you’ll always be thinking of the power you once had as a young bar star “hottie” dancing on a speaker so gold chain wearing losers could look up your skirt.
Either way, I’m sure you’ll have a fitting, karmic fate.
And now for my comeback, the comeback I didn’t bother wasting on you in the bar because you were obviously half way to being shit-faced so you could find the courage to captain your sexuality with some drakar noir wearing dick head that would only see you as a moist sheath for his cock. I hope the guy that managed to wrangle you into bed last night not only abruptly and rudely pushes his way into your out-port with his potentially diseased manhood, but that he also finds the courage to finally pull off a donkey punch so he can brag to his friends the next day and laugh at your expense.
I hope that you end up the cruel and ironic butt of a joke based on the way in which you have sexually exploited yourself to boost your confidence.
Good luck being you, you worthless bitch.
Sincerely,
Mike Fly
posted by Mike Fly at 12:16 AM
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