I got into a conversation with a clerk at work, which eventually broached the topic of dating and went something as follows:

“So Linc, I told my daughter about you!”

“Ok…”

“I thought she’d think you might be too old for her, but when I told her you were just north of 30, she said, ‘Oh that’s not too old!’”

“How old is she?”

“She’s 23!”

“Oh cool, and she’s not seeing anyone?”

“Nope, not anymore. And she only has one daughter, but don’t worry, I’m sure the father is completely out of the picture now. You should give her a call, I think she’d be just perfect for you…. Linc? Linc?”
 

But I had already left the building.

I recently got an email from a reader who said I was the perfect match for her sister, so I sent her sister an email and we shared a few things about ourselves. Here’s what I learn about her:

She loves to fish in Alaska and went to college on a football scholarship. Even worse, she’s from Tennessee. No offense to the natives of the state of course, I just think you’re all a bunch of donkey hicks (though I’ll make an exception for this gal here, only because she knows me and if I didn’t she’d hunt me down like a dog and saw my legs off.)

Anyhoo, after inquiring a bit further about this football thingie in the vain hope that colleges also extend football scholarships to cheerleaders as well, evidently she got the scholarship as a result of being the equipment manager for her team, and has been entertaining a life long dream of being a contracts agent. She majored in sports admin and now works as a… paralegal.

My final “Oh My God Get The &^%$ Away From Me!” note to her went as follows:

Dear “Meg,”

You’re either a man or a very, very ugly looking woman. If you’re wondering why you might be having trouble finding guys to date, the spitting and scratching your privates (of which you have none) while you hang out with your football buddies might clue you in somewhat. Maybe it’s not your fault though, just the fact that you live in a state with an in-bred population that rivals only Utah in numbers, and as a result it’s often hard to tell the gender apart.

I’m not sure why your sister thought I’d be a good match for you though. Maybe she felt I’d be able to help you discover your feminine side by offering you the love that only a fine, studly man like me could give. Yet despite the fact that I have been known to work miracles every now and then, sad to say, I simply cannot bend the laws of physics to my will in order to transform you from a hairy, lumbering, mountain man-thing to a soft, doe-eyed work of womanly art that I would be proud to roll around in the hay with.

So, best of luck to ya, hope you do fulfill your dreams of being an agent, and who knows, maybe I’ll read about you someday in Sports Illustrated, though it quite obviously won’t be the swimsuit edition.

Much Love,
Lincoln

Ever since I’ve began to get some feeling back in my hands once I started tying up icepacks to them, a thought occurred to me.

Women are to blame for all of my health issues.

Wait, I’m going somewhere with this. See for guys, when it comes to taking care of ourselves and improving our general health, we’re pretty much… what’s the word, a bunch of schmucks.

We could wake up with the left side of our bodies completely paralyzed, but as long as it doesn’t stop us from getting our clothes on and driving to work, we won’t really think much of it, the same way we won’t concerned much if a car backblows 3 quarts of oil out its exhaust pipes, as long as its considered otherwise drivable. Minor things like half body paralysis (or a black cloud of smoke bellowing out of the engine of a car) don’t really bother us too much, so long as we can still get from Point A to Point B.

Women though, have this tendency where if they so much as suffer a mild discomfort, they’ll go into a complete system shutdown while they conduct extensive full body scans to determine what’s going on. But more importantly, they’ll do that for the people they love too. It’s what helps them make great mothers and doctors.

Unfortunately for me though, Mommy thinks I’m quite old enough to take care of myself now, yet I still have to reminded that there are things out there such as bandages and Tylenol, so no, I don’t have to go to bed with unbandaged scrapes oozing blood onto the spreadsheets, or wail over a pounding headache that a little Motrin IB could have fixed up right away.

Had life not have been so cruel, had I met a special girl early on, she could have kept me healthy, bandaged up my wounds, and kissed all the booboos, especially the one that was in my heart. So I blame women, (or rather the absence of one), for my current plight. You could have fixed me up and made me a better man, but instead, all that’s left of me now is a wounded rabid animal hellbent on ridding this planet of your vile kind. May the skies rain down hellfire and brimstone on all you filthy harlots of Babylon, all because one of you just couldn’t wubs me.

YOU GIRLISH MANIACS!!!! DAMN YOU!!! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!!!!

You know that saying where young girls are “sugar and spice and everything nice?”

Complete load of crap.

Of course I’ve known this to be true ever since my 12 year old bootingtocks would get chased home by a gang of cheerleaders each and every day after school. Let me tell you something, there’s a reason some girls like to grow their fingernails long, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with cosmetics.

Though I have to admit, I’ve never gone up against the kind of ferocity such as what happened there in Florida (it’s always Florida too.) It wasn’t just watching this poor girl getting beat down by a mob of flip-flop wearing teens that I found so disturbing (along with the painful memories it brought back), but just how coldly calculated it all was. They basically kidnapped her, brought her to the house, then had a throwdown while look-outs were stationed outside to make sure no one interrupted the beating.

If you ask me, that seems to be an appropriate rite of passage a teenage girl might take if she wanted to be a divorce attorney someday, except that the morons here videotaped the whole thing and were actually planning to upload the vid to YouTube. No wonder people refer to the state as Floriduuuuuuh.

All because somebody supposedly dissed somebody else on a MySpace page (of course.)

Oh, by the way, if you’re reading this and you happen to have a MySpace page, you suck and I hate you. I don’t care if I don’t know anything else about you, I hate you, hate you, hate you, even if you gave me a million dollars I’d still hate you (I’d keep the money though.)

I recently found a site called Twitter Local, which offers a way to generate an RSS feed that filters out tweets around a certain area. Who knows, I might be able to find a nice girl I could get together with for snugglies and lubs this way.

I narrowed the search parameter to within five miles, and the first Twitterer I found went by the name of Kristin, who describes herself as a “semi-geek lesbian transsexual in early stages of transition.” These were her latest tweets:

god nigt mfers

bad goddeie

fg**k you all. fk*k me.

beotch

and i dot care what u thingk about

yeah i know i am f**ked up andtalkxng shic bit ig have coood reason andi i dont core

f**k b ush, bugfk society, f**k men

I need to get out of this town.

This video might give you an idea. I think it would also aptly sum up my high school experience too.