I Don’t Give a Hoot about Your Stupid Dog

Lady and Dog

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

MEN SEEKING WOMEN

Sorry, but I am interested in dating a woman, a human woman, not a woman AND her canine in some kind of bestial threesome. I am not interested in walking your dog, playing catch with your dog, or talking to your dog. I have no desire to carry around a plastic bag filled with the intestinal contents of your dog. I will not coo that your dog is cute, or cuddly or adorable, when in fact your dog is a dog. I want to look at a picture of you, not one of you with your dog, or, worse, just a photo of your freakin dog. I will not laugh when your dog bites me on the leg, nor will I be amused when your dog licks me with its poop breath.

I will not be a good sport whenever things are getting hot and heavy – and then, just as the both of us are on the verge of erotic bliss, the goddamn dog starts barking in the hallway and scratching the door – whereupon you tell me to hold that thought as you get up, let in the dog, who, of course, jumps on the bed, which you think is so cute — and by then I have lost so much momentum as to require a hot tub date with five Playboy Bunnies to reboot the mechanism.

I will consider you a pretentious crazy woman if you have named your dog “Hawthorne” or “Charles de Gaulle” or however you say “poop breath” in French or just plain “Rick.” I refuse to fill a conversational vacuum by the two of us staring at your stupid dog while talking about your stupid dog, even if your dog suddenly solves Fermat’s Last Theorem. I will not listen to even one word of your account of how you took “Rick” to the vet to get a colonoscopy; nor will I absorb one sentence about how you found the dog in a shelter and how it was instant love from the moment you two mammals laid eyes upon one another across a room of caged raccoons. I deeply apologize, really.

Come to think of it, you and your stupid dog can go straight to hell.

(Check out my writer website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

I Don’t Give a Flying S**t about Your Oversized Dog!

big dog

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Listen, pal, I get that you spend more time working out at the gym than you do being a sentient human being, unless you consider grunting into a full-sized mirror as behavior befitting an advance species; that you have a tattoo-band around each of your upper arms, whether it be a thorny branch, a Celtic tribal design, or a Superman comic-strip; that your garment of choice is a muscle-man T-shirt, even when attending a state funeral – yes, you dumb fuck, I get the whole ensemble as compensation for some inherent shortcoming, but do you have to take the stereotype to the extreme by owning an oversized dog that serves no other purpose than to terrorize humanity?

You see, dipshit, I have no desire to walk into your smelly apartment only to fall straight onto my back because your Doberman has seen fit to lunge for my jugular. I have not the slightest interest in sitting on the couch with you watching WWE Monday Night Raw and then having your Rottweiler mistake my leg for his daily treat of raw meat while you, the idiot, laugh at my fear of losing an essential limb. There is not a single moment on record in which I would walk through a park with you and then be guilty through association when your fucking crazed Pit-Bull mauls, maims and mutilates a small child – and afterward watch you get outraged when public opinion calls for the death of your precious killer doggie. In fact, I would be more than happy to be the one who sticks an axe in the head the homicidal Pit-Bull, and then, while still inflamed with adrenaline, remove your block head from your steroid-enhanced, fake-tanned torso.

Oh that’s right, shit-weasel, I do not believe for one second the reason you give for owning a half German Shepherd, half Boxer, half Husky, half Alaskan Malamute, Husky – oh fuck you with the math! – that reason being that you own this aggressive, lethal beast for your own personal protection. What, the chronic steroid use and MMA workouts are not sufficient for self-defense? Then you must be a real pussy! Wow you really are a scared little man jumpy at the thought of having a run-in with a big bad burglar, or a one-hundred-and-ten pound crack-head mugger, or an athletic girl like me – you poor, frightened little boy. I’m surprised you don’t own three more over-sized, man-eating dogs – oh, that’s right, you do own three more salivating, four-legged members of the species referred to as man’s best friend, if by friend you mean the agent whereby a man (or woman, or child) will contract rabies.

You know what, asshole, I honestly don’t give a fuck about you and all your over-sized dogs.

Listen, pal, I get that you spend more time working out at the gym than you do being a sentient human being, unless you consider grunting into a full-sized mirror as behavior befitting an advance species; that you have a tattoo-band around each of your upper arms, whether it be a thorny branch, a Celtic tribal design, or a Superman comic-strip; that your garment of choice is a muscle-man T-shirt, even when attending a state funeral – yes, you dumb fuck, I get the whole ensemble as compensation for some inherent shortcoming, but do you have to take the stereotype to the extreme by owning an oversized dog that serves no other purpose than to terrorize humanity?

You see, dipshit, I have no desire to walk into your smelly apartment only to fall straight onto my back because your Doberman has seen fit to lunge for my jugular. I have not the slightest interest in sitting on the couch with you watching WWE Monday Night Raw and then having your Rottweiler mistake my leg for his daily treat of raw meat while you, the idiot, laugh at my fear of losing an essential limb. There is not a single moment on record in which I would walk through a park with you and then be guilty through association when your fucking crazed Pit-Bull mauls, maims and mutilates a small child – and afterward watch you get outraged when public opinion calls for the death of your precious killer doggie. In fact, I would be more than happy to be the one who sticks an axe in the head the homicidal Pit-Bull, and then, while still inflamed with adrenaline, remove your block head from your steroid-enhanced, fake-tanned torso.

Oh that’s right, shit-weasel, I do not believe for one second the reason you give for owning a half German Shepherd, half Boxer, half Husky, half Alaskan Malamute, Husky – oh fuck you with the math! – that reason being that you own this aggressive, lethal beast for your own personal protection. What, the chronic steroid use and MMA workouts are not sufficient for self-defense? Then you must be a real pussy! Wow you really are a scared little man jumpy at the thought of having a run-in with a big bad burglar, or a one-hundred-and-ten pound crack-head mugger, or an athletic girl like me – you poor, frightened little boy. I’m surprised you don’t own three more over-sized, man-eating dogs – oh, that’s right, you do own three more salivating, four-legged members of the species referred to as man’s best friend, if by friend you mean the agent whereby a man (or woman, or child) will contract rabies.

You know what, asshole, I honestly don’t give a fuck about you and all your over-sized dogs.

(Check out my writer website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

Ladies, I am an Awesome Liar

Liar Liar

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

MEN SEEKING WOMEN

Ladies like to complain that men are liars and that, as a result, ladies want no liars, which is to say that they want no man, though they want a man. I am here to say that if all men are liars, then why not go all the way and date the greatest liar of them all – ME.

I once lied that I had AIDS just so I could have a buffet table all to myself at a Tea Party convention. Another time I misrepresented myself as mulatto in order to gain entrance and tuition to MIT, though I am about as good at science as I am at speaking the truth. And how can I forget the time I called in sick to work saying that “I” had just died, and that the viewing was scheduled for tonight, so I needed the day off to, first, make myself available for embalming, and, second, to buy a new suit to wear later when grieving over the coffin filled with my own lifeless body – but that, boss, I should be in tomorrow to finish that project I started last week.

As such, I can be the guy who, if you have an ass the size of a Volkswagen, will tell you that I have never seen such a tight, heart-shaped rump in all my days roving the strip-club circuit; who, if you are duller than trampled sheet-metal, will claim that I have never met a funnier, wittier lady this side of Sarah Silverman; who, if you own a hideous harelip, will press my hand against my fibbing heart, and profess to you that even Angelina Jolie would die for such a pretty mouth.

Hell, I’ll lie that I love you with all the love that Antony felt for Cleopatra just before his love cost them both their lives, to say nothing of two huge pieces of prime real estate. I’ll lie that, honey, I love your irritating dog, or your eye-scratching cat, or your imaginary friend, Cybil. I’ll lie that I love dancing, cooking, reading poetry and all that other rarefied stuff just to fulfill your fantasy of having a gay boyfriend with eyes for only you, a girl. I will dissemble about your choice of clothes, that, yes, dear, you should wear that trashy halter top to the charity fund-raising ball. I will keep a perfectly straight face when informing you that even though you read and follow the advice of mass-produced woman’s magazines, that you are nonetheless a unique gal who marches to her own drum.

Yes, ladies, I will lie to you like how you lie to yourself, even better, spinning such a gorgeous web of deceit around your spinning head as to make you feel special, loved and worshipped.

 

(Check out my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

I Want a Man to Tell Me Lies!

Hearing Lies

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Yes, boys, honesty is a virtue and all that happy horse shit, but, come on, do I really want to hear the truth that I do indeed look fat in that dress, especially after I dropped half a week’s paycheck to buy the damn thing? Do I really want to hear you tell me that the hair on my arms makes me look like an ape, and if not an ape, then some freak in a circus act? Do you really expect me to smile when you offer an accurate description of my size-thirteen shoes as objects that could be used as boats in a flood to save a family of five? You may read the above words, and counter with, But isn’t honesty the very backbone of a good relationship? To which I say, Bullshit!

Pah-leeze, if we are being honest here, let’s just all admit to the fact that every love song is an outright fabrication. Is it really possible, according to Bruce Springsteen, for a girl’s eyes to “shine like the midnight sun?” The reality is that a lady with eyes that emit blinding beams of white light would scare the crap out of the villagers, who would burn her at the stake. But the other reality is that, Bruce, you can sing that shit to me anytime, and, what is more, I damn well may believe it.

I want to hear that you, my future boyfriend, will love me forever, though the best case scenario will be forty years tops when you take into account the one big truth that none of us can bullshit our way out of – and that’s Death. You have to give the nod to the dude who wrote the marriage vow, “Till Death do us part,” for at least expecting romanticism to abide by the laws of physics. But I say, fuck the laws of physics, and instead spin me the lie of how, in the afterlife, we will live in heavenly domestic bliss forever and ever, regardless of how you may grow tired of my Honey-to-do lists after the first two thousand years.

There was an Italian Renaissance cynic, Pietro Aretino, who wrote: “I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies.” Well, Signore Aretino, that’s your opinion. I will adore any man who tells me beautiful lies, even when I know they are lies, for instance that I am the most beautiful woman in the world, though People Magazine has never even heard of me; and hate any man who tells me that I look fat in my new dress, even when the dress tag reads “20.”

So I will date the man who responds to this ad with the most outrageous lies. I will even accept plagiarism, and help you in that direction by pointing you to the sappiest love-song artist of all-time, Paul McCartney:

Baby I’m amazed at the way you’re with me all the time Maybe I’m afraid of the way I leave you Baby I’m amazed at the way you help me sing my song You right me when I’m wrong Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you

Oh, Paul, you say the nicest things to me!

 

(Check out my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

Single Dad Who Uses His Kids to Get Laid

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(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

MEN SEEKING WOMEN

That’s me, one of those annoying single dads who parades his kids around parks and lingerie shows, using the tikes to break the ice with girls, like how some guys use their dogs for the same purpose (“My dog peed on your dog, let’s go out for a coffee”), or like how other guys resort to a size-20 sock shoved into their underwear as a conversation starter. I like to exploit the biological imperative that requires all ladies to smile at children, with my own precious litter going by the yuppie names of Carson and Thumper, ages four and one. Once I extort a feminine smile, I offer a sheepish grin in the hope that this exchange will make up for my total lack of conversational ability. It is also a good ruse with which to lend me the appearance of wholesome morality, though, once I drop off the product of my loins to the ex, I usually spend the night beating off to every porn site from here to Jenna Jamison’s rectum.

I talk at the top of my lungs in pre-school-teacher-speak in public places to make attractive females aware of my sensitive maternal side – and if that fails, there are always my wire-framed glasses and galoshes. Sometimes this strategy back-fires in my face like throwing a balloon filled with pizza sauce against the bathroom mirror. Last week, for instance, I was sitting with the offspring in a Hooter’s Restaurant pontificating about how, “no, Carson, the girl in the orange halter top is not a superhero!,” when a cute biker whore told me to “shut-up, you fuckin’ douche-bag!”

I am never more annoying as when, in the morning, I park the baby carriage in a coffee shop amidst tables of working people starting their day. It is true that they want peace and quiet to type on their laptops or to read the newspaper, but I am a single dad, and therefore I expect to be acknowledged as a saint, if not a hero, even when Carson yanks on the pant-leg of a lawyer, or Thumper starts screaming for no apparent reason except to make reading even a box score as difficult as solving the Rosetta Stone while sitting ringside at an Ultimate Fighting Championship. Luckily, I can always depend on some old lady to ratchet up the chaos by paying loud attention to the kids in her own version of pre-school-speak enhanced by a three-pack-a-day habit. And yet the beautiful Asian woman studying her Excel spreadsheets at the other end of the room has yet to take me home and fuck my self-absorbed brains out – this development remains a mystery.

And so, ladies, do you want to be part of my phony Full House act?

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

Love Me for My Seven Bratty Kids

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(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Family is very important to me. That means that my seven children from seven different fathers should be important to you, too. Yes, sir, that is an ultimatum – no matter that you do not know me from Adam, or even from Adam Ant; no matter that my stomach has more stretch marks than Kirstie Alley after a six-month bout of anorexia; no matter that you could just as easily find one of those aging party girls with no baggage except for the need to offer unsolicited details about past lovers, especially the ones hung like rhinos; and no matter that I am always yelling at the kids if only to garner attention from people in public places while remaining oblivious that the public wants me and my chaotic brood dead, dead, dead. To repeat, any man who wants to be my lover – that is, if a quiet place can be found to do the deed — must first want to share in the lives of my seven children from Hell, and not just Hell in general, but the part of Hell that features the novels of Judith Krantz and the preserved brain of Howard Cosell.

You see, in my world, I am special by virtue of the drama inherent in my copious reproduction.  Whenever I feel myself becoming less interesting to the locals, I go to the closest biker bar and let a hairy fellow with no personality, save for a spider-web tattoo on his neck, buy me three Slim Jims, a pickled egg and a twelve beers, and then let him bang me in his trailer that tilts at an eight-degree angle due to the ongoing vibration of Guns and Roses blasting at 180 decibels. And – BAM! — nine months later I am a real-life heroine – yes, a single mom with another kid on the way with the prospective father nowhere to be found, if by nowhere you mean the same sleazy bar with the same stale slim Jims and green eggs. “How does she do it, that poor girl?” sings the Greek chorus. So-called educated people answer this question by saying, “She does it because she’s an ignorant whore.” Fuck those Yuppie assholes, I retort. Let them try being a single mom!

What I need is a man’s man, though not in the gay sense, though I have nothing against faggots, so long as they stay away from my kids, especially young Calvin, who, at six, wants nothing to do with toy trucks, preferring instead Sports Agent Barbie. His older brother, Fritz, says that at least this Sports Agent Barbie likes sports, but only after he pushes Calvin’s face into a pile of dead beetles. The man of my dreams will have no problem using a pair of pliers to yank out the continuously rotting teeth of my children; or taking the brats in their over-sized shorts (the boys) and under-sized tank tops (the girls ages four to nine) to pick trash on Tuesday mornings; or regarding my body as the Venus de Milo whenever my arms are folded into my muu-muu.

I am sure to get a ton of responses for this ad, so please do not be hurt by my rejection. Such an attractive prospect knows that she must break a lot of hearts, in particular those with a low sperm count.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

“Not the Toy Train Set Guy” Seeks Lady

Train Set Guy

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

MEN SEEKING WOMEN

Please, ladies, do not be misinformed about my identity, as it would be inaccurate, if not mean-spirited, to call me a “guy who would rather play with his little choo-choo trains than bed down with a naked, voluptuous, sex-crazed woman who wants to take him around the track a few times.” It is true that I may have a perfect replica of the Union Pacific traveling over the Great Divide, but it is just a hobby that I do on the side when I am not doing anything else, which just happens to be all the time. I am no different from the man whose hobby is dressing up in aerodynamic cycling garb so skin-tight that his genitals stand out in more detail than the bas-relief on the Arch of Galerius while he peddles around with a Lance Armstrong-inspired gang of like-minded people, all of whom treat the road as if it were their private track and, in the process, cause a mile-long traffic jam in their huffing and puffing wake. Sure the bicycle guy is the more in-shape male specimen, but his constant sitting on a wedge cuts off the blood flow to his weenie. In other words, neither of us gets laid, but at least my sexual engine is capable of going choo-choo if only a boxcar of a woman would be willing to form a connection.

            It’s not like I don’t have other interests. I possess a formidable knowledge of Russian history and geography, which I just so happened to put to good use when constructing a miniature version of the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok as envisioned by Czar Nicholas II. I am a self-taught electrical engineer who convinced himself that he was not learning Kirchhoff’s First Law so that he could create an original train set, that it was only a coincidence that he went on to design his own Digital Control Command to power an Atlas-Bachmann hybrid for a Santa Fe reenactment in his backyard. My interests are so eclectic that there was a time when I immersed myself in both the art of graffiti and New York Yankee lore, though we should ignore the product of this “research” – i.e., an impressive rendition of a vandal-spray-painted D Train passing outside right field of the famed Bronx landmark. So you see, ladies, I am in no way that Toy Train Set Guy.

            For argument’s sake, say I am that guy. What would be so bad about you, a sexy lady, hunkering down with me in my basement as we thrill at the bell and whistle sound of a Lionel – and I am not talking about Lionel Ritchie. Oh to cuddle with you as we watch our scaled facsimile of the Orient Express and imagine ourselves in one of the sleeping cars traveling from Paris to Bucharest – and remember that, unlike the cyclist with the wedge forever wedged in his crotch, I am a fully functional male…who just happens to like model trains.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

“I am Not a Cat Lady” Seeks Man

Cat Lady

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Men, I just want to reassure you that I am not one of THOSE cat ladies. You know the type: An old broad who owns five felines, all of whom sleep with her like inter-species hippie commune. You see, I have only four cats, and only three of them share my bed, one of whom is not allowed to rest his extra-large head on my shoulder. His name is Fat Head. There was a time when I did allow Fat Head to cuddle with me, but his whiskered Volkswagen-sized cranium caused me to lose the feeling in my throwing arm, and thus my flag-football team had to forfeit our game that week.

Sure I have round-table discussions with my Four Whisker-teers, but in my case it is not a matter of being one of those crazy ladies who talks at their pets. I am a good listener. Our resident Minx, Dorothy Parker, has so much to say – and what an imagination!  Just last week, she threw off this witticism: You can bring a dog to culture, but then he barks like an idiot. We all laughed with the exception of the forever volatile Scratch-n-Sniff, who meowed out of jealousy before scratching the anus of the fourth feline member, Cy Meeze, who, in response, endured the discomfort, since he is a homophobe. Never mind that Scratch-n-Sniff is a girl. Cy Meeze once had a bad experience with a set of love beads while catting around at Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

People say that one of the prerequisites to being a cat lady is to be a fifty-five-year-old virgin, or someone who has not experienced sex with a man in the past fifteen years, or has at least not “let” a guy cop an accidental feel in a crowded bus. Well, guys, have no fear of me being that woman, as once a week I enter City Hall with the sole purpose of getting frisked by one of the security men. I am no prude.

But the security guard is just something I get on the side, like a Last Tango in the Municipal Parish. The true man in my life – and don’t get jealous, my internet suitors — is someone who I am gazing at right now on the TV with the sound turned up to the loudness of forty-six howitzers all firing away in an echo chamber. You may know my boyfriend – Brad Pitt. Scratch-n-Sniff says it won’t work between Brad and me. Yuh, and this from the same kitty whose psychotherapy practice is on the verge of bankruptcy. Why else does Brad stare at only me from the pictures of magazines? Well he has split with Angelina. Poor Angelina! So beautiful, and so blind. Luckily she has her six hundred and thirteen adopted children to fall back on for emotional comfort. I’m surprised she doesn’t own six cats, the chump.

But Brad is cool enough to not mind me dating other men…just so long as they understand that I am NOT a Cat Lady, thank you very much.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

I Want to Propose to a Lady on the Jumbotron

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(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

MEN SEEKING WOMEN

Hi, girls, you may know me as the guy who wants a girlfriend but who also wants, at the same time, to soak his malfunctioning brain in professional sports morning, noon and night – and to hell with re-runs of Law and Order. I listen to sports radio like a drug addict staring at a vial of crack, and have been known to suffer from hypertension when a certain host forgives A-Rod for being rich, famous and someone who pays to have a manicure. I talk with a fat face about NBA officiating and the laziness of modern athletes, all the while being the owner of a huge beer belly that is camouflaged under a series of game jerseys, which, to me, is the same thing as being out there on the gridiron running fly patterns – that is, if I could jog more than ten yards without collapsing from exhaustion with nacho sauce all over my mug. I wear a goatee because that is what an out of shape white man with no athletic ability does in an effort to strike fear into the cashiers at the supermarket. In sum, I would not know how to talk, in romantic language, to a girl if Shakespeare sat in the press box coaching me through a headset.

BUT I can buy a gal a matching team jersey so that the two of us can hold up stupid signs at a game with the goal of attracting a television camera, whereupon we can get all jacked up and shout that WE are number one! Afterward I can punch you on the arm to indicate that I think you’re a smoking hot babe, and you can retaliate by smacking my gelatinous ass like how a coach does his players on the sidelines. We can drink eight-dollar beers, since I am so classy as to not mind paying extra cash to get my honey a good buzz-on so to minimize the awkwardness of our conversation about which steroid era baseball records should be eliminated from the books.

My own personal championship will be broadcast on the jumbotron when I propose to you, my number one fan, my giant-foam-finger-toting cheerleader, with her face painted the team colors. I will be wearing my baseball hat backward like James Bond…if James Bond was an idiot. You will hear me utter my first non-sports related words during our entire year-long relationship, most of which was spent at courtside yelling at our team of underachievers – and those words will be: “Will you marry me after the game…unless it goes into extra innings?” I know, I know, that question did include the words “game” and “extra innings,” but, hey, call me a romantic.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)

If You Propose to Me on the Jumbotron, I’ll Kill You

Raiders Girl

(This is a satirical dating profile from my book, Fake Personal Ads (Or Real Personal Ads for Fake People).)

WOMEN SEEKING MEN

Hey guys, yes, I want a boyfriend, but let me lay down my one and only ground rule: If the two of us are ever getting drunk at a baseball game, and you ask me to marry you while all the stadium watches us on the jumbotron — if you do this, or are even considering such an despicable act, or have ever had a smile on your face picturing yourself on one knee holding up an engagement ring with 35,678 sports goons hanging on your every illiterate word – I say, fellows, if you are ever that man and I am that poor, unfortunate woman, I will fucking slit your adipose-insulated throat. Do I make myself clear? Got that, all you nitwits who equate fantasy football with Romeo and Juliet?

Okay, I may not slit your throat. Perhaps I will just wait until I am driving your drunken ass home from the game; and once you begin celebrating your total lack of shame by pounding your chest and pointing to the sky and thereby jamming your fingers on the car ceiling, I will unlock your door and kick you out onto the freeway to be run over by an eighteen wheeler.

Boy, if you want to be in a relationship, you should at least have the decency to once in a while converse on a topic that was not introduced to you by some clown commentator on ESPN; or to not employ a sports metaphor for every occasion – yeah, fuck-wad, going to my sister’s baby shower is NOT a march into the red zone. And, for the love of Phil Simms, do not light candles for a romantic dinner using a New York Giants lighter.

And again, motherfucker, if you ever turn to me at a ball game with the smug expression of a gay florist, though you have the facial topography of a bulldog, and pull out some Mickey Mouse ring (probably bought during one of your gambling jaunts to Vegas), and I look up to see you and a mortified me on that fucking jumbotron (which, by the way, represents the downfall of civilization) – if this happens, I promise you, asshole, that I will track you down to the end of the earth, or, more likely, to the closest sports bar, and blow your head off with a Joe Montana-autographed shotgun – and I hope this justified murder is broadcast on the jumbotron as a lesson to all you no-imagination, non-poetic, chest-painting fools.

All right, fellows, drop me a fucking e-mail.

(Visit my website: http://www.authorjamesfjohnson.com)