Letter to a Dirtbag

Dear Dirtbag,

You have found this letter on your person because you did one of the following things: made an inappropriate comment, touched someone you had no business touching, or were just a belligerent piece of trash.

This letter is my way of informing you that the previous night’s behavior was completely inappropriate and that the next time you think of going out you should instead do something else, like take a bath with your toaster.

Why am I so angry with you? Because you wouldn’t respond to reason, refused to imitate the behavior of a decent human being and so, when my bouncer was hurling you out the front door, I stuffed this letter into your coat pocket. I suspect it was the only feminine contact you’d had for quite some time.

It’s at this point that I’d like to ask you a number of questions:

1.      Does your mother often pretend that she doesn’t have a son?

2.      Have you ever been beaten up by someone’s pimp?

3.      Have you ever had someone suddenly disappear while on a first date with you?

4.      Do women tend to laugh when you ask them out?

5.      Was your only long-term relationship a result of her drug habit and you providing her with whatever illicit substance? 

If you answered yes to any of these questions it’s because you’re an asshole. Women do not like you. They don’t like your behavior or your flagrant disregard for the fact that they’re people.

I suspect that you know what I’m talking about and that you, in fact, have a shrine or drawer of some sort filled with female personal effects that got left behind at your place, and when you get rejected you go home and cry into someone’s discarded hair extension. I suspect that this behavior will escalate and someday you’ll be crying into a used implant, but let’s not talk about your latent homicidal tendencies quite yet.

First order of business is getting rid of your blow-up doll. Even she doesn’t like you and is probably making it easier to treat women like objects. Then I would suggest that you stop talking, at least for a while. At least until words like, “That outfit would look better on my floor,” and, “Too bad you have enough ass for both of us,” immediately come to mind when you’re meeting someone for the first time. I suspect that even the women at your family reunions avoid you.

If you fail to do to curb your disgusting commentary, I suggest you get arrested, thus sequestering yourself from the female population and doing us all a favor for your months of incarceration. Steal a car, rob a bank—I don’t care—just be sure to do something that leaves us the fuck alone, though I get the vibe that kidnapping is totally your style. I also suspect that being someone’s bitch will give you a completely different outlook, because let’s be honest, there’s no way you’re going to be top banana.

If, when you return to the outside world you still feel the urge to slap women’s asses and tell us we’d look better underneath you, provided we put a bag on our heads, then I suggest that you re-read this letter; though you can probably stop after the bit about the toaster.

Sincerely,

One Angry Waitress