Recently in reader mail Category

the brian

When I was growing up, I was often in the same class as Brian. He was puny. He was dim. He was weird looking. One could have said those things about most of us at that age, truth be told, so Brian further distinguished himself by being unremittingly hostile. Brian employed flamboyant assholery in hopes of making the world cower before him. He insulted people constantly. He talked about how stupid we all were, about what pussies we all were, about our general inferiority in the face of his obvious greatness. He wasn't smart enough to craft an actually hurtful insult, so he stuck with the classics. "You're very very dumb," he would say, convinced he had just flayed someone's soul and congratulating himself for his wit and bravery. It was unremitting. It was, in fact, all I remember of him. He was a noisy lap dog barking ferociously at every passersby, to whom he was otherwise of zero consequence. Brian employed volume and venom as flak, hoping to confuse our radars. It didn't work. We knew what he was then, and he remains my benchmark for dim-witted, noisy frauds now.

When a certain presidential candidate speaks, all I hear is Brian. I can hear little else. I think, in fact, the exact same things that I did then. Tough guys don't really go around talking about how tough they are. Ditto smart guys. Or successful guys.

What a bottomless well of well-earned insecurity. I look forward to the resulting constitutional crisis when Brian loses an election.

down, people!

I remain astonished by what you people get worked up about. I could incite violence against third-world gay farmer Jewish puppies and offend you less than in my Grand Marnier post.

Yes, I went through the "This is not ideal. Maxi pads absorb things." train of thought. I briefly considered stripping away its layers, using the thin portion near the wing, etc. before I came up with a better idea. I did not mention the better idea because it was not funny. I focused instead on where my train of thought comically bottomed out.

I don't drink coffee, so although a coffee filter occurred to me during that moment in the bathroom, it would have been a 40 minute drive, and if I'm doing that, I'm just buying a new bottle of Grand Marnier. The goal was instant gratification with parts on hand.


Longtime Stank Troll John and I had plans to see the Steelers-Ravens game together, but his wife fainted at work, and he felt compelled to stay home and watch her not faint again. As John's reward, Roethlisberger torched the Ravens for six TDs. Because Ben's a dick like that.

John's game ticket went elsewhere, but John felt compelled to ship me a bottle of bourbon anyway. When I thanked him, he replied, "I just try to stay good with made men."

For good measure he added, "Well, it is a well known fact to anyone who's ever watched The Godfather or Wiseguys that mobsters are neat freaks."

reader mail: college football playoff

Several folks have asked what I think about the new playoff system in college football.


Is a playoff the surest way to empirically determine the best team? Sure. I'll grant you that. Yay, empiricism! Rah, empiricism! Empiricism is so much more fun than actual fun!

Now here's the cost.

A few years ago, Ohio State and Texas played a home and home. One September, I flew to Columbus and watched Texas win. The next, I flew to Austin and watched Ohio State prevail. I was vibrating with excitement in the months before. This matchup and its stakes were enormous. Whoever lost would likely be out of the national championship picture—at the beginning of their season!—and whoever won was an immediate favorite. Indeed, both winners went on to play in the championship game. Just as important, there was an epic atmosphere in September in two great college towns, and I thoroughly soaked up the revelry and gravity. It was special. Those were some of the best trips of my life. I didn't mind spending thousands, taking time off work, kenneling the dog, getting on a plane, renting a car, gagging on perfumey motels. I was eager to.

Now? Meh. Screw it.

I wouldn't go if you paid my way. It wouldn't be worth the inconvenience. In a season that ends with playoffs, those September games are piffle. They're weightless exhibitions. They mean little more than regular season games do in college basketball. Why bother? Why care?

I don't.

So congratulations to the media for getting their way and transforming my once-favorite sport into a duplicate of the NFL. Only, you know, with lesser quality players. It's god's work they're doing. We badly needed a Lesser NFL where once fun happened.

reader mail: microsoft surface

Nose: firmly against grindstone. Time to open up the Stank mailbag.

Poking me with a stick and running away, longtime Stank troll Marta asks me what I think of Microsoft's impending Surface tablet. I don't have many thoughts, beyond "I can't wait to read about how totally new and awesome tablets are on my Microsoft friends' Facebook streams!"

It's hard for me to imagine a use for the thing, but to be fair, I couldn't imagine a use for the iPad, either, and I'm on my third one. I use it constantly. It is my preferred means of consuming most media. But therein lies the rub: my iPad's primary use is not being a Windows machine. I've got six Windows boxes running in my home, plus two Macs. I hate them all. It seems all I do is scan for malware, update my OS, update Flash, update Flash again, resolve driver and service conflicts, scrub the registry, reboot, rinse, repeat. The iPad has none of that crap. I grab it, I play my game or read my article or watch my movie, and it just works. Thank christ something does. In summary, I need a Windows tablet like I need ninth asshole to wipe.

Sometimes I know when readers will doubt the authenticity of a story, but usually it takes me by surprise. Several people asked if it was true that a burglar broke into a car in which someone was sleeping, as if that story was too fantastical to be believed. "It's just hard to believe that all this stuff happens to one guy," wrote one reader.

It's at this point I ask them to reread the post. Nothing happened to me. I was a fourth-party witness to a rumor of a text message. It was someone else's story. It was funny, so I shared it.

I seriously doubt my life is more anecdote-worthy than anyone else's, so this leaves me wondering if people just aren't paying attention to their own lives. If you have half a sense of humor, humorous stories abound.

• • •

WE INTERRUPT THIS POST - Right after I wrote that paragraph, Allie texted me the following: "At the DMV. Both men on either side of me are talking on their phones about shooting guns."

Case in point, folks. Being amusing is not really that hard. Pay attention a little.

• • •

This is why I scoff at social media being any sort of replacement for Old Media. The very notion presumes that most people are interesting, are intelligent, are paying attention, are worth hearing. They are not. They are trivial, unremarkable, stupid, petty, deathly dull. They have no filter for what is actually interesting. They have absolutely nothing to say, yet they say a lot of it.

Give me higher pay walls, please.

"Dear stupid sexist fuck,

If you know so much about women why do you spent your days riding a stupid website that isn't even funny or has anything to say. No wonder women hate you the way you stereotype. Your a dumb cunt.

Angry surfer"

reader mail: canadian invasion

Ultimately, quite a few Canadian readers responded to yesterday's post. But they took their time. First came that most dread of species, Americans With Opinions.

Alas, I found myself agreeing with almost all of them. Our fellow Americans not only don't care that they sound illiterate; so unskilled are they in the written word, they're no longer capable of recognizing the issue. So being good Americans, instead of mitigating the issue, they lazily dismiss its importance.

Special honors go to the guy who said the decline in American writing is due to the influx of Mexicans. Unless they're sucking the literacy out of people named Tyler and Courtney (I'm imagining sucking the innards of a tamale out of a corn hush), this is not what I'm talking about. Come sit in on my college English class and see the privileged white children of affluence not give a shit that they write at a sixth grade level, and then tell me again about the Mexicans.

But back to the Canadians. When they didn't write, I was puzzled.

"Of course they didn't. Why would people who write well read Stank?" Allie asked.

reader mail: finesee-ese

I didn't get flamed for last week's posts (I, II, III) like I expected. Most of my mail was from guys. Really bitter guys. Really bitter guys looking for a hug.

Keep looking.

Distinguished Stank troll Dinah was the only woman to take a stab at writing finesse-ese for men. Italics are me.

When he says: "Ummm, yeah that might be fun..." He means: "I will make sure to be as passive aggressive as possible and ruin whatever it is you think might be "fun".

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't done this. I hadn't thought of it in those terms, of course, but "passively ruin whatever it is you think might be fun" did immediately make me think of certain occasions. I'm not proud.

When he says: "You're embarrassing me." He means: "You're having a good time. I hate it when you're happy."

Whew. After your first one, I'm relieved that your second one isn't me. An alternative explanation that springs to mind is that your happiness makes him feel excluded, which is both more understandable and more pathetic.

When he says: "I don't go in for public displays of affection." He means: "I don't want any random females in the area thinking we're involved, just in case I want to fuck them."

Sadly, this transcends gender. Alternate interpretation: "I don't want anyone thinking we're involved, 'cause, well, I'm ashamed of you. Now. Where are you taking me for Valentine's dinner if I don't get a better offer?" And you had better have bought me jewelry."

When you say: "Hey you look great! Is that a new shirt?" He hears: "God, I hate that shirt."

What I hear: "You wanna stop wearing a black t-shirt every goddamned day? Christ! Is it the same shirt, or so you just own 10 of them?" (Answer: the latter)

When you say: "Let's go out Friday night!" He hears: "Here's your chance to publicly humiliate me!"

Aw, come on now. You know we can't plan this far in advance.

When you say: "Would you like to come over for a home-cooked meal?" He hears: "I want isolate you from everything you hold dear."

When you say: "Why do you have only one pillow on your bed?"
He hears: "I plan to move in with you."

Excellent stuff.

reader mail: special guest

From time to time, someone about whom I write will google themselves, read my post, and write me back. Sometimes it's a complaint. It's usually a thank you. But recently I got my first "you're welcome." It was for one of my favorite posts ever, the Mike Tomczak saga.

To my rapturous delight, I got this.


My year is made.

lost email

Ugh. This morning I discovered a screw-up (my own) that rerouted years of reader mail into purgatory. As my punishment, I am now reading misspelled death threats from 2008.

They seem strangely toothless, now.

I'll reply to stuff sent in the last year. I apologize for the seeming rudeness. I wasn't ignoring you. But now if I don't reply, yes, I want credit for ignoring you.

reader mail: the seattle police

Troublemaking Stank troll Jean asks me what I think of the recent controversies with the Seattle Police. Meanwhile, d'Andre and Allie both send me this clip. That's when this job is easiest: when y'all do it for me.

Of course, the clip isn't entirely relevant to the teenager who just got punched in the face. No where does Rock say "don't shove the arresting officer." So really, if you think about it, it's Rock's fault.

A "high ponytail" is nothing nefarious, Stanktards. It is a euphemism for neither drugs nor sex. It isn't a euphemism at all. Low ponytail at left, high at right.



How on earth do you read yesterday's post and conclude that I'm a rapist-coddling misogynist? I shall now use smaller words, in the hopes that certain readers understand.

I said that even under the best of all possible circum—

Er, possibil—

Er, fact thingies, I dislike the guy and want him off my team. Best possible = he's innocent. One might suspect that I mean rape = the worst possible fact thingie. One might also suspect that, given that particular fact thingie, I would favor a far worse punishment. One might, but one didn't.

Tomorrow's post: the types of web surfers I hate most.

missing me

I was meeting remotely with one of my writers, which means that even though we were in different locations, she was watching what I was doing on my computer. Mail from a longtime troll came in, which was perfect, because we would rather look at anything other than the crap on which we were working.

"Did you read my post today?" I asked first. She had. "Okay, check this out. I just got mail from someone who will have completely, utterly, psychotically missed my point."

I brought up the mail. Its author had completely, utterly, psychotically missed my point. She instead refuted at length some point I had not even known existed, let alone made.

"Holy cow."


"Did she even read it?"

"I think she angrily writes while skimming."

"She's nuts."

"These are my readers."

for tammy

For sullen Stank troll (is there any other kind?) Tammy, I offer my go-to methods of cheering myself up when I'm down. These work every single time, and some of them are even free.

  • Surfing real estate somewhere other than Seattle. I think this would probably work for only me, but boy, does it ever perk me up. Unless I look at Pittsburgh, where I've never seen a remotely attractive house for sale.
  • Fatboy Slim's "Weapon of Choice" video.
  • Planning a trip. Closely related to the first option, but easily attainable. Even modest road-trips are marvelous breaks from the realities of work and roof repairs. And as I've said before, if I want to hear "I love you," all I have to do is drive my car two hours in any direction from downtown Seattle.
  • "The Ref." No matter how depressed I am, this movie about a burglar (Denis Leary) taking hostage a viciously argumentative married couple immediately puts me right.
  • Sam Kinison performing "Are You Lonely Tonight." I first saw this when I was freshly dumped, and it was a warm bath of catharsis. Available on the Best of Johnny Carson DVD.
  • Helping someone I love. Awwwww. Flip side: hurting someone I hate. If there's anything as gratifying as helping virtue triumph, it's helping evil smooch a steaming pile of dog shit. Pucker up, Buttercup.

Responses to the beautiful ex survey ran the gamut from "Hell no, it doesn't bother me. I'm here and she's history" to "I'm here and she's history. Hell no, it doesn't bother me."

Okay, so there were a few fringe votes. And there were the obligatorily baffling, misspelled "What question do they think they're answering?" responses. But the "hell nos" were the overwhelming majority. And the timbre of the explanations did gibe with my own notions, although that could just be observer bias on my part.

I love women. Adore them. Predicated my entire life around them. I especially adore them when I compare them to the alternative, for whom I have no use beyond mowing my lawn. But collectively, and quite easily, womankind's least attractive quality is how they treat one another. Sister-on-sister crime is relatively rampant—men simply don't knife one another for sport like this—and it's this perception that led me to this hypothesis: she likes having beautiful predecessors because it means she "beat" them.

I will now pause to allow the knives to fly. Tell me I'm wrong. Please.


"What movie character is your ideal (or most ideal) woman?" writes virgin Stank troll Gaylord. And no, that's not a pseudonym.

Tempted as I am to go with Rachel McAdams in the scene in Wedding Crashers where she plays football, I cannot. For they snapped the ball and her princessly gait betrayed a woman who hadn't run to so much as a bus stop in her life.

So I'm going to have to go with the Laura character in High Fidelity. What a strong yet loving character. You hate her for the first half of the movie. She's dumped the protagonist. He's heartbroken. She's moved in with another guy. Hate hate hate. But then she reappears. She stumbles upon our hero's Top Five Dream Jobs list and asks why "Architect" is #5. Wouldn't you rather be doing what you're already doing than be an architect? she asks. He admits she's right. While he watches in silence, she erases "Architect" and scribbles "record store owner" on his list.

And the hook is set. That's exactly what I want from a partner. At least until I get it.

i stand corrected

Last week I said "If there's anything more satisfying than finding a deer eating your roses and shooting him in the ass with a pellet gun, I don't know what it is."

Longtime Stank troll Sean replied "That would probably be #2 on my Most Satisfying list. No. 1... finding a cat in mid-squat, taking a shit in your Lantana and Mexican Sage, and shooting him in the ass with a pellet gun, your heart swelling with joy and laughter at the sight of him sprinting away, howling, with a half-inch of turd protruding from his butthole."

Yep. These are my readers.


Reader response to my post about lying has run the predictable gamut, from where do you find these people? to the dubious I don't associate with liars, so I wouldn't know. I humbly suggest, sir, that you're just not very good at spotting 'em.

Stank troll Marta, among others, points out the ethical implications of checking out stories one does not believe. This is indisputable. It's crossing a line. Also indisputable is that I have never crossed the line in error. The few times that ludicrous explanations have reached such critical mass that I decided to look deeper, I found exactly what I was looking for. It doesn't feel good to prove someone you love a liar. It's devastating. It's utterly heartbreaking. But the years afterward do tend to be remarkably free of self-doubt.

reader mail

My mail this week fell into four categories:

Exactly three women suggested that my "other" arm be stowed under the woman's neck. I'm not sure if my female readers have Bluto necks or if their men simply have Olive Oyl arms, but in either case, this solution ain't working for me.


great moments in troll correspondance

I just found myself writing this to a female reader:

"I'm sure it looked for all the world like you pile-drived into his privates."
Yep. These are my readers.

reader mail: oh, just let me dream

When I started this site in the 90s, I had to explain to many a troll that "checkraise" is a poker term. Then I had to explain that "poker" is a card game I like to play. And then 2003 happened. TV poker became a fad, and millions of psueoker players came out of the woodwork, and I was suddenly inundated with requests to sell my once-obscure domain.

Yesterday's inquiry was no different, except that it came from a poker agency who

  1. represents an unnamed client interested in buying my domain and whose short list of clients, it turns out, includes
  2. Shannon Elizabeth.
As in the actress who played the hot foreign exchange student in American Pie. Now, I was a Tara Reid guy myself—although I cannot for the life of me remember why—but Ms. Elizabeth will do. If, per chance, she is the client, the notion of "reasonable terms of sale" will become a whole lot more inclusive.

reader mail: the golden boy

Distinguished Stank troll Amit writes of a Super Bowl experience far worse than a "we-ing" girlfriend.

tx_brady.jpgI was watching the big game the other day at a friend's house when I realized something that may interest you--all the girls in the room were rooting for the Patriots because Tom Brady was "so cute" and "dreamy" and "a hunk" where all the guys were going for the Giants b/c the Patriots were cheaters and Tom Brady is a douchebag that (probably) cheats on his girlfriend and leaves her for a supermodel when said girlfriend gets pregnant. The girls looked right past these obvious flaws. It was quite an interesting dichotomy, one I wonder if was present at Super Bowl parties across the country.

Amen on the cheater douchebags, Amit. Meanwhile, did anyone else find this repugnance to be true? I'd call it ugly gender stereotyping except that I've seen it more often than not at Super Bowl parties.

Not to mention that the day a woman is actually attracted to the virtues that she says she's attracted to, I'll feel bolts of pain in my left arm and keel over. Sorry, ladies, it's the one gender bias to which I subscribe. Oh, there's two: I don't think most women should have jobs where they have to make announcements into a cheap P.A. system, either. Absolutely piercing. But that's it.

reader mail: four things

I glared at the oncoming road. "I hate my readers."

Allie chortled and drove on. No more really needed to be said. She knows.

"I really, really do."

You routinely call me, among other things, a fascist Bush apologist and a bleeding heart pinko. I've long considered my personal Holy Grail to be a single post that elicits both responses. So far, the closest I've come has been consecutive posts. I'll keep trying.

Monday's Four Things post achieved a sort of fame, though, in that it inspired seemingly opposite reader vitriol. No one could pass your tests, read some. No wonder you're a miserable fuck. Yet others took exception to the notion that anyone they have ever met would lie to them, fail to stop an animal from being abused, or have friends whose affection amounted to no less than a Nobel Peace Prize in homage.

To the former group, I say that these are indicators, not tests. If this were a test, I would fail too. There are no scores; there's no passing or failing. Get over your notions of judgment and think of this as anthropological observation. It's where someone falls on the continuum of human failing, and how they respond, that interests me. Over time, I've come to believe these four bits of data about a person tell me far more than the sum of their parts.

To the latter group, I obviously have nothing to offer. Go in peace. Or in contempt. The important thing, really, is that you just go.

reader mail: ed and the whales

One of the many "Ed" responses to last week's "What should I write about?" survey suggested that, if possible, I should write about both Ed and whales. Only one such story is possible, but for what it's worth, here it is.

It was 2005. I'd been reading reports about a half dozen orcas who had been raising hell with the seal population all over Hood Canal's 70 miles. I'd gone looking for them several times, but even enormous underwater animals proved damned hard to find overwater. At this point, it became a grudge. I packed my idiot dog and her food into my boat and resolved not to come back until there be whales.

Ed was a grudging partner. She tolerated the boat. It was something she did because I, not she, enjoyed it. (Enter a blowjob joke here.) But she was game, and after a fruitless day of searching we moored at a slip at the south end of the canal and spent the night. She was relieved that the constant pounding of the boat relented for a time.

The next morning we set out again, and within five minutes we saw a furious, violent thrashing in the water ahead of us. There was no doubt that we were not only seeing the orcas but that we were seeing them hunt. I stopped several hundred yards away. These were mammal-eating transients, not the tofu-and-sprout-eating local resident orcas. I dropped my hydrophone into the water, and Ed and I listened to their excited chatter. And then they noticed us.

Two enormous adults headed right at us, repeatedly breaching into the air as they lunged in a straight line toward my increasingly tiny boat. I did the math.

Boat: not quite 2000 pounds when wet.
Two mammal-eating orcas: 24,000 pounds.
I fucking hate math. As I called in the sighting and attempted to film the action on my camera, the whales went all Jaws on me, plowing through the surface of the water, like torpedoes bull-rushing the side of my boat. I cannot begin to explain how primal your feelings become when a carnivore this huge and powerful takes such an aggressive interest in you. You feel utterly fragile and so, so slow. Yes, I knew they weren't going to eat me. And I knew they probably wouldn't sink me. I knew these things. I just couldn't feel them.

I watched them plow all the way to the side of my boat. I never saw them veer. I braced for the inevitable impact. Ed, meanwhile, noticed the whales and hung herself out the side window. And just before the first whale glided gracefully under the boat—with a wad of bloody, pulpy seal remains visibly clenched in her mouth like a gum bubble—she rolled to her side to look at my idiot dog. Her eye couldn't have been a yard away from Ed's dangling legs and head.

Ca-righst. Does Ed look like a seal hung on a hook? The whale wasn't scoping me out, after all. The two females headed off into the sunrise, chattering away, perhaps speculating about the hairy, curiously retarded seal they'd just seen. And I realized I was supporting my weight with my arms, lest my knees collapse.

• • •

Here's a clip of me calling in the sighting. I'll warn you now that my camera's 30-second limitation kicked in just as it was getting interesting. This clip is more remarkable for demonstrating Ed's aforementioned retardation.

reader mail: pivot questionnaire

From dubious Stank troll Jenni comes a delightful request: "Your royal Stankship," she begins, "Would you, per chance, deign to answer the Bernard Pivot questionnaire?"

Maybe it was the butt-kissing, more than the request, that was delightful.

What is your favorite word?
Anything with the suffix "-tard." It's my all-purpose insult. "Seatard" is probably my most used such insult because, well, in Seattle I'm surrounded by them.

What is your least favorite word?
"Dysfunctional." As in family. Wally, I've seen shit that would turn you even whiter. Get over yourself, grow up, and take ownership of your own problems already.

What turns you on?

What turns you off?
Pretense. See "Seatard," above.

What is your favorite curse word?

What sound or noise do you love?
The Michigan football team being booed in their own stadium.

What sound or noise do you hate?
My boat hitting a submerged log.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Private investigator. I can't believe they get paid for surfing the Web. And for sitting in a car, eating Cheetos and stalking other people's spouses. I'd truly be making my hobby into my job.

What profession would you not like to do?
Anything on the Vista team at Microsoft. See "competence," above.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"Surprise, motherfucker."

memo to a gender

Stank troll Jean checks in with a doozy.

"If your wife has been telling you for four years that you're neglecting even her nominal needs (and how), if she's begged you to go to marital counseling and you made her go alone, if she recently said she 'feels done' and is inclined to move out (and your response was to say if she'd just have sex with you, everything would be better)...if you've done these things, here's a tip: helpfully leaving her a shiny new copy of Dr. Laura's 'The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands' is probably not going to get you laid."
Bravo, brother.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

guest post: troll invasion

It had to happen eventually, I suppose. I met one of you. Rather, I had one of you barge into my life and stick your outstretched hand into my face. The following guest post is written by longtime Stank troll Chris, who is now my—sigh—co-worker. The unedited version was even longer. You're welcome.

• • •

I've heard John's name a number of times, but I've never had a formal introduction. John's "mentee," Elizabeth, was responsible for pointing me at checkraise, and over the last few years it has held a position of high esteem next to many other, and equally worthy, curmudgeons on my RSS feed.

After my recent transfer, his name began popping up more often. This time it wasn't coming from Elizabeth; the writers on THIS team knew him too. And when they said his name it mostly wasn't preceded by "That fucking…" or followed by "...the miserable bastard." They liked him. I'd transferred right into a lair of followers, sycophants, and former co-workers (including my manager, who John described to me as "the most exhausting person I've ever met."). My fate was sealed. I knew then that I'd get my introduction in short order. Or would I? After a few weeks of never seeing the guy, I had to ask of his whereabouts. "He only comes in once every few weeks," I was told.

Yesterday he showed up. I was told he was "in a meeting" but it's probably okay to drop in and say hello.

Folks, I've read this blog for some time now and I knew that barging in would likely be a bizarre situation. Aside from a few emails, this guy doesn't know me from Adam. I'm neither fan-boy nor sycophant, but I had to introduce myself if only to combat the preconceived notion that nobody in Seattle is pleasant or can carry on a conversation with a total stranger. His congenial nature is well known. I was sure he'd appreciate the gesture.

I found him in his boss's office. I was to leave soon so it was now or never. With a knock on the door, I was let in.

Me (extending handshake): "Pardon the intrusion but I thought I'd introduce myself while you're here - otherwise you'd think I'm a complete bastard."

John (accepting said handshake): "Okay."

Boss (looking disturbed and confused): "You know this guy?"

Me (as usual, I begin to over-explain myself): "Yeah we know each other through a circuitous combination of friends and acquaintances."

(John shoves the door into me. )

John: "Okay, now, FUCK OFF!"


In under two minutes, I'd managed to coax a FUCK OFF out of John and it took nearly no effort on my part. The look on his boss's face as the door closed? PRICELESS. It's exactly what the U.S. Military was hoping for when the phrase "Shock and Awe" was coined.

So now we've met. Elizabeth's world is likely crumbling down around her. I was only disappointed in that I didn't have enough time to show him pictures of my children.

reader mail

The Fetardation post elicited much mail, all from annoyed-to-enraged women who rather missed the point. I don't care if you attract these men. Really. Knock yourselves out. I don't even want an admission that they're after you. I know they are. No, I just want a morsel of respect occasionally tossed my intelligence's way. Oh, and if you could stop vilifying me for noticing the creeps trying to ply their way into your pants, that'd be swell. Amen.

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