Some people’s KIDS bigod. Bifuckinggod.

Jumping Christ on crack.  I’m gonna open up a good old-fashioned can of redheaded asswhuppin’ on someone.

Let me introduce you to Dipshit “Couldn’t Find Ass With Both Hands and a Map” McTwat!  He started calling me a couple weeks after I went off the market.  I asked how he got my number, as it was private.  He says a friend gave it to him (!) and he wouldn’t say who this jolly little friend of his was.*

Dipshit McTwat has no references.  Oh, wait.  My bad.  He has one reference for someone who retired almost a year ago and cannot be reached by any means.  His other reference turns out to be… (wait for it) … (wait for it)… a local gal he talked to who agreed to say he’d seen her when he HADN’T.  HAD NOT by all that is sweet and holy.  FAKE reference.

And he keeps calling me!  He’s been calling for months, just to chat.  Oh, and to ask again and again and bloody again if I’m available, and if I really mean it about needing references, and whyyyy to I have to be so meeeeen to him.  Bitch, please.  Take a Midol and stop whining at me.

I have asked him more times than I have countable kittyhairs to stop calling me from blocked numbers. Tonight, I am waiting on a fellow to call me to let me know he wants me on my way to his place.  At the time I’m expecting aforementioned call, a blocked number comes in.  Hello, D. McTwat!  And, oooooh, it gets better!  He wants to talk to Brandy.  BRANDY.  HE CALLED TO TALK TO BRANDY.  Because she is newbie friendly and he’s sure – SURE – that one day he and I will make sweet music if he can just find a good reference.

AHAHAHA.  Ha.  Not even if I were paid triple and got to use a strap-on.

And just to put the dill in my pickle, I’ve been waiting at my incall, all gussied up, for a fellow who wanted an outcall.  you remember?  He was going to call me to let me know he wanted me to be on my way?  I’m supposed to wait for his call?  Yeah.  So I’m waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.  My phone ain’t ringing.

Fucker sent an email two hours ago.  From his phone.  To cancel. Canceling through email from his phone.  Which, y’know, he said he’d call me on.  Is he aware those things make calls as well?

Some guys hobby because they’re sex addicts.  Some hobby because they are lonely, or don’t get enough elsewhere.  And some guys hobby because in a bar full of drunk women, they couldn’t get laid with Brad Pitt’s dick.

* And if I ever find you, you little fuckhead, I will cut it off and use it as bait.  Be afraid. PS.  Thanks for telling him I was fucking hot.  That’s sweet of you.  I’m still gonna kick your ass end up between your shoulderblades, just on principle.

P.P.S.  Yeah, this’ll be in the Locker Room in about… oh, an hour.  If you have called me roughly every week since February to pester the everloving shit out of me for an appointment with no verifiable references, if you have colluded with a provider to give me a fake reference, if you have ever (tone and all) whiiiiined at me and actually said the words “why do you have to be so meeeeen”, and (please note) if you have repeatedly refused to take a goddamned hint – yes, I meant you and I’m not a bit sorry.  Shove it up your ass sideways.  You (specifically D. McTwat) bother me so often, I’ve actually spent more time dealing with you than with my ATF.  And, the rest of you, if you are any of the above, suck it up and don’t DO that shit.   You guys, you get some chick who goes all flaky crack-ho on you and you get to bitch and moan and wail about how much it f’ing sucks that people can’t grow the hell up.  You think we don’t get it too?  I had things I was supposed to be doing, and I put them off because someone asked me for an appointment.  I’m sitting here, in makeup and freeballing in a see-through dress, having been stood-up, and I’m pissed.  It happens.  Deal.

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Published in: on August 19, 2010 at 7:44 pm  Comments (3)  

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3 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. I ain’t a smart man…. but even *I* know not to piss you off… I’d offer to help, but I don’t want to get smacked in the crossfire. Besides, I’m more scared of you than the Australian National Rugby team, so I think you’ve got it handled.

    • I bet I could take that team when I’m pissed. Redheads. Nasty tempers.

      I’m just sitting here having a nice communion with Jameson (good Irish lad), listening to Slipknot alternating with old country REALLY loud, and entertaining the hell out of Brandy with my ire. She finds me amusing. So at least I made someone laugh tonight.

      Jackasses = suck.

      Did I ask yet how your trip was? I was quite distracted by feminine wiles, and now I don’t recall if I asked.

  2. I love red heads! What is it in the genetic code that colors you hair that makes you SO DAMN GOOD at ranting!

    I am just a John but nothing chaps my hide as much as getting stood up or a last minuet cancellation.


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