Ghetto Genius: funny letter

Monday, September 10, 2012

Dear Cat Woman...

Dear Cat Woman,

I hope this message finds you well. You probably don't remember me from Saturday night because well, you were too busy on the phone talking to your goddamn cat sitter drinking an Arnold Palmer at our table. Talking to your cat sitter drinking an Arnold fucking Palmer...on a damn date!

I don't know whose life has just turned for the worst...yours or mine.

I knew I shouldn't have registered on Match.com. Why? Because I meet weird bitches like yourself...who go on "dates" and talk about their fucking animals. Specifically, their cat named "French Fry". C'mon lady, "French Fry?" For fuck's sake, this was brutal. As I sat there drinking my martini trying not to punch you in the esophagus, I tried to be in-tune to what you were saying. I think by the third minute when you uttered the words, "My little oochie-poochie kitty cat is at home sick," I wanted to stab myself with my salad fork and just die instantly.

How does a woman like yourself be so out of touch with society? I mean, your profile said you were an outdoorsy girl who loves sports and social events. Knowing this WAS the case, I was super fucking stoked and I thought to myself, "Finally, a girl just my style. Maybe this could be the one." Then I meet you and it looks like you have been held captive in your home since 1991 and took a huge fucking liking to pepperoni Hot Pockets and instant mashed potatoes. Outdoorsy girl? The only outdoorsy thing you've probably done was take out the trash. Love sports? Eating is actually a sport so you got me there. Social events? Playing Shakespeare in the fucking park with your cat is not social. That shit is fucked up, scary and downright wrong.

You said you looked like Jennifer Aniston. Fuck no you didn't. You looked more like Yao Ming...IF HE WAS AMERICAN. Do you know how hard it was not to ask the waiter for a whole bottle of vodka and 151 so I could attempt to see what you looked like wasted? I thought paying $12/martini would help the cause. Guess what? It didn't even dent the cause. I will no longer be able to masturbate for the next 3-4 weeks.

After listening to your written screen play, "The Adventures of French Fry and Michelle," I was convinced this was payback for the time I put a paper bag over that cross-eyed girls head in college when I agreed to have sex with her. Even though she was dumb enough and drunk enough on following through with this so-called "fetish" of mine, I knew for damn certain, being on this date was Karma. I knew I should have kept going to church...at least watched Joel Osteen on t.v. But how I was supposed to know? You labeled yourself as "The one for Mr. Right." FUCK.MY.LIFE.

You tricked me and tricked me good, Cat Woman. I knew I shouldn't have gotten to the restaurant early. I fucking hate good habits sometimes. However, as bad as I want to say the night ended, it wasn't that bad. I mean, how could I be mad at some chick who not only paid for dinner and got me drunk but in the end, gave me a blow job in front of my house as I meowed like a cat when you made me O-FACE. Wait, what? (that one was for you J-Wunder)

I'll admit, I thought it was a dream...then I woke up in my bed the next day still wearing a condom. You gave me a blow job with a condom on? That's fucked up shit. Meow.

Well played cat woman, well fucking played.

I hope to never see your face again,

Your Match.com date