Today at work I was asked if I would be signing up for our workplaces “day of giving”. Every year, my company takes one day to say screw productivity and engages in a charitable event in order to get photo ops with the local news.
Oh yeah, they also spew some crap about wanting to “give back”.
So tomorrow about 150 of my soft, cubicle bred coworkers will jump in the company bus and head out to do some yard work for needy families in the local community.
Cause that’s just what homeless people need. Landscaping.
Call me crazy, but personally, I think if you have a yard at all, you aren’t needy. You just lack priorities. Namely, food first. Worry about the rock garden later.
Needless to say, I will not be participating. Not only because I’m a bad person, which I am, but also because I think my office has gotten it wrong once again. They’ve picked something frivolous to contribute. Not something these people need, or are going to use in the long term.
Not that I see anything wrong with being frivolous. But, if you’re going to be frivolous, at least be fun! Needy people don’t want hedges and flower gardens. They want booze and big tits, just like anyone else.
That is why I, and a few of my more morally skewed coworkers, have decided to start our own charitable organization. So, without further ado, I present to you;
The First Annual Homeless to Hooters Jamboree
Our itinerary is as follows:
11:00 – Scour the Orlando metro area looking for as many homeless people as we can find and cram them into my Chevy Cobalt.
While a Chevy Cobalt may not seem like the best mode of transport, I know from personal experience that you can fit a minimum of four dead hookers in the trunk. That should equal at least 3 live people.
12:00 – Stop at liquor store, as Hooters does not stock such fine preferred homeless liquors like Mad Dog 20/20 and Schlitz.
1:00 – Arrive at Hooters. Extricate homeless people from my trunk. Obtain tables.
After that, its going to be a mindless whirl of heavy drinking, hula hooping and discussions about the chips the CIA is currently installing in peoples brains. The best part is I don’t have to drop anyone off at home when we’re done, because duh, they don’t have homes.
I know, I’m a saint. You don’t have to thank me. I just like to give back.
Dear Every Driver on I4 to Orlando today,
Today was delightful. I brought my son to Aquatica, the water park at Sea World. Aside from the 20 minute security intervention, where I became the harpy shrieking at her son for getting lost, it was an ideal family fun day. However, the ride to and from was less than delightful.
In fact, I’m surprised we made it home alive. I am not surprised that my son’s vocabulary has increased to include the words “fucktard, twat, cunt-twat, cunt-twat-buttfucker, motherfucker, fuckoranbitch-indecipherable-profanities.”
After spending the afternoon and early evening with you, I must say, you all drive as though you have your heads planted firmly up your asses. As such, I would like to offer a few suggestions for your future driving experiences.
Guy in the blue 95 Hyundai, with the spinning rims and the black window tint; please return you seat to the full upright position when driving. We get it, your “street” and super cool. We’re all very intimidated and impressed with your bad-assedness. You’re so bad ass that you have to drive laying down. No 90 degree angle for you, you’re sticking it to the man.
You look like an idiot, and you clearly can’t see shit, considering the fact that you spent 4 miles driving in the breakdown lane. Yes, your piece of shit car looks like its about to breakdown. That doesn’t mean you’re allowed to preemptively drive in the lane designated for breaking down. Pull over and start driving again when you’re ready to wake up.
Next, princess in the Lexus, with the cell phone, lets clear this up right now; you have nothing important to say. You are going to spend your life depending on a man, whether is daddy, husband, or whatever. You’ll give birth to 2 distant kids who will be raised by their Portuguese nanny and participate in charities you don’t give a shit about. You will never have an independent thought. When you die, you’re going to disappear from the world having never contributed a thing.
Now, what are you texting on your fucking cell phone that is so important that you need to risk the lives of everybody on the road?
Let’s clear this up. You cannot text and drive. No one can. Its friggen impossible. When you’re swerving in and out of traffic, not concentrating on the road, you’re going to lose control of your vehicle, and you are going to crash.
If karma had anything to do with it, you would wrap that obnoxious car around a tree and take your DNA out of the equation. Unfortunately, that’s never what happens. Instead, you’re going to hit an innocent mom driving her kids to soccer practice and wipe out half her family.
Will that fact that “Andrew is sooo super cute and was totally flirting with you!!!:)!:):):)” seem so important then? No? Then put down the phone and drive bitch.
Also, if your car is for some reason incapable of doing the minimum required speed of 55 MPH, keep it off the damn road. Putting your hazard lights on isn’t a “get out of jail free” pass. Pull the shit box over and call your babies mamma to pick you up like you always do.
Finally, a few basic reminders of the rule of the road. The far right lane is for slower traffic, the far left is for faster. Theses lanes are not interchangeable. If you are slow, go in the right lane. If you are fast, go in the left lane. It’s not hard.
Also, when moving between these lanes, please take notice of a special option designed in your car. It is to the right of your steering wheel and it is called a “directional” or “turn signal”. It is designed to show that you are moving from left to right in relation to traffic.
Please practice using it instead of expecting everybody on the road to be physic. Otherwise, one Florida driver is going to fucking ram your ass, then file a neck injury claim against your auto insurance.
If you have insurance. Judging by the number of vehicles being held together with duct tape and coast hangers today, I’m guessing most of you don’t.
If those of you driving on I4 today would take notice of the above constructive criticisms, I would appreciate it. If you have any questions, concerns or complaints, I would suggest you put them all exactly where your head was clearly located while you were driving this afternoon.
Concerned Florida Driver
Just when I think I’ve got dating figured out, they’ve gone and changed it again. According to Emma Gray, of the Huffington Post, the old school rules of dating that advise women to be mysterious, yet demure and restrained are out the window. Personally, I think it’s about time. However, it does create a bit of a problem.
How is a girl like me, who thrives on drama, going to survive this? It stands to reason that if the rules of regular dating have changed, then the rules of psychotic and mildly obsessive dating have changed as well. What’s an unbalanced girl to do?
I guess if all the rules have changed, there’s nothing to stop me from creating a new set of rules for those looking for nontraditional, drama filled relationships. Welcome to Thunderdome bitches!
NOTICE TO ALL POTENTIAL SUITORS
- Our first date will involve you taking me to an incredibly expensive restaurant where the entrees are tiny and the wine list is extensive. I will proceed to get drunk, then cry about how I am never going to find a husband. Bummer, huh? Cheer up, later I morph into the slutty kid of drunk.
- I will solicit your opinion on controversial topics like politics or religion, then will proceed to vehemently disagree with you using facts I made up. You will become frequently annoyed with me and eat faster to get the meal over with. I will make no attempt to pay, despite racking up a $300 bar tab.
- Due to the “slutmorphosis” mentioned previously, you will make the mistake of sleeping with me on the first date. Partly because I’m hot and partly because I gave you a drunken handjob while you were driving me home. The events following this will be a roller coaster ride of crazy which will cause you to swear off dating entirely
- Following the first date I will update my status to “in a relationship” with you on Facebook. Be prepared for multiple comments like “who’s that bitch?” and “no way her tits are real” under every single photo you have of a woman, regardless of your relation to them.
- My phone calls, texts, emails and skypes will be excessive, extensive and unnecessary. For example, I may call you from the mall to ask you about a pair of shoes I am thinking about buying. I will then text and email you photos of them, with the subject line “URGENT!!! 911!!!!”. If you fail to respond to me in 5 minutes, I will repeatedly call, email and send facebook messages to your relatives.
- Facebook and Twitter are going to play as huge part in our relationship, as will my blog. Every single detail of our relationship, from the fight I started when you didn’t respond fast enough when I asked you if my chin is too square, to the time you drank too much and couldn’t get it up will be posted online…in detail. Twitter will assist with real time updates
- I will hate your family and friends and will treat them with open disdain…when I’m not trying to borrow money from them.
- We will have a minimum of four pregnancy scares a month, which will involve dramatic fights, tears and finally a sheepish admittance that I “was just testing you to see how you would react.”
- I will fill your apartment with bridal magazines and frequently discuss our wedding plans, even though you haven’t proposed and we’ve only been dating for two weeks.
- Attempts to break up with me will be met with delusional disbelief, followed by screaming fights I instigate at your apartment and drunken midnight phone calls to you your family. As for your friends, those who didn’t ditch you when you started dating a Yoko, I will sleep with most of them in an attempt to make you jealous. Sleeping with them will cause me to repeat the entire above process with them, getting you off the hook. It’s kind of like accidentally jumping on the grenade
I was preparing to write up a detailed proposal of the benefits of outsourcing my job to India, then discretely slipping it into my managers inbox, when I got distracted as usual. I got distracted wondering why I hate my job so much. Why the idea of layoffs fills me with hope. I’ve been doing this job for years. I didn’t really start hating in with the fire of about a thousand suns*, until about a year ago. Its not just the work, which is mind numbingly dull, or the deadlines and the stress. I could live with just that.
It’s the fact that there is not one reasonably fuckable person in my office.
The people at work are either married, or ninety, or so damn young that I get them confused with the kids from the office daycare. Everyone is in that doughy, relaxed, office worker letting themselves go phase. Elastic waistband pants and orthopedic shoes. Stressed out. Grumpy, depressed, badly dressed people look even worse under fluorescent lights.
I have never had this problem before. At every other job I’ve had, and there have been many, there were multiple guys I would have happily nailed. They practically had to put a padlock on the men’s shower room the time I had that job at the Fire Department.
That’s the thing I miss. I miss having someone to flirt with and look forward to seeing. I miss having a hot boss that I could send slutty emails to. I miss making cute boys uncomfortable. It didn’t have to mean anything, but it was fun all the same. It was nice having that office crush instead of being crushed by the office.
I miss the fun side of sexual harassment. Also, when the guy is hot, it doesn’t count as harassment. If anyone at my office now sexually harassed me, I would mace them, vomit, then mace them again.
I was spoiled in my workplaces. In the Army, I got muscular guys in uniform. In the corporate world I get elderly alcoholics with sock suspenders.
Fuck my life.
Don’t get me wrong, there are younger people. By younger, I mean still breast feeding. They’re all bright and shiny and overeager. Ready to climb the corporate ladder until they make it to the slime at the top. I know eventually they’ll be one of the grey people in stretched out sweaters, because its always forty degrees in the office, and it depresses me. It also makes me feel 90.
The way I see it, I have very few options left. I could;
Go gay – weirdly, the ladies in my office are keeping it pretty tight. Its only the men who seem to fall apart once they hit thirty-five. I’ve never had homosexual leanings, but if I could start playing for the other team, there’s quite a few I would be proud to take home to mom. Plus, it would really upset my homophobic grandmother. Unfortunately, I’m just not ready to take the plunge.
Find a new job – trust me, I’m trying. I just don’t want the same thing to happen again. Problem is, interviewers don’t like it when you ask for photos of all their male staff prior to coming in. Some of them get downright snippy.
Somehow, trick my boss into hiring allot of attractive guys – I already tried switching the number of the temp agency with the number for a male escort service. I think he figured it out when the menu told him to “press 1 to schedule an erotic massage.” I’m also pretty sure I heard him press 1.
The way I see it, my only option is to get fired. That way, I can stay at home and begin my delusional, obsessed fan, love affair with Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo.
*I’m feeling very artistic today
So I was watching GMA this morning and a segment came on about Lady Gaga being involved in yet another controversy. As she’s always a good one for drama, I watched in eager anticipation. Apparently, she sent out a tweet that has seriously offended some people in Thailand. I waited with baited breath to hear what she had said. How bad was it? Tsunami joke? Human trafficking joke? What could she have said that would put the country up in arms?
I just landed in Bangkok baby! Ready for 50,000 screaming Thai monsters. I wanna get lost in a lady market and buy fake Rolex.”
Umm, uh…still looking for the upsetting part. First thing that drew me was “lady market.” Maybe a prostitution joke? Nope, just an open air market, according to Google. Thai monsters? She calls all of her fans “monsters”, so that can’t be it. Fake Rolex? Is that offensive?
Seriously, I’m still trying to figure this out. But people in Thailand were definitely offended. There were complaints from Thai citizens that indicated this statement was “offensive, insulting and bad for the country’s image”.
I can definitely see why Thailand would be worried about their image. Tourists flock there every year for the scenery, cuisine, customs and…the child sex tours. Now where is NAMBLA going to hold their annual membership meetings?
God forbid a country where 40% of their prostitutes are children should have their image besmirched by something as offensive as the idea that they might…gasp…sell knock-off jewelry.
“We are more civilized than you think,” tweeted Thai DJ Surahit Siamwalla, who also called for a boycott of Gaga’s Friday show in Bangkok.
FYI, DJ with the worst stage name ever, I didn’t think your country was civilized to begin with. As long as Thailand continues to be listed as a top destination for victims of sex traffic, as well as the perverts who use them, the Thai vacation is off my bucket list.
As long as your politicians are getting teenagers pregnant and your police support child abuse openly, I’m about as likely to go there as I am to take a cruise around the African horn. You don’t need to worry about your reputation with me. You didn’t have one to begin with.
Also, what’s up with the hate on for knock offs? Lady Gaga is known for her love of knock offs and I respect that. Why spend $2000 on a watch when you can spend $20? Knock offs are sold EVERYWHERE, including the good old US of A and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I wear my Fada and my Berkinsticks with pride, and no one knows I got them at Flea World.
My point is, don’t get offended by stupidity when your country has bigger problems. Ask most people what they think of Thailand and most will immediately think of child prostitution or death sentences for drug possession. So don’t worry, no one is associating your precious county with knock off Rolex’s. We’re all too busy thinking about baby rape.
I’m in a corporate mood today, as shown in my previous post. As I am in a corporate mood, I am thinking about the business phrases I became acquainted with when I entered the corporate world; i.e. my cubicle coffin. Six Sigma, Lean, diversity, work/life balance and others were all foreign ideas to me ten years ago.
Now, they’re a language I speak fluently and I would like to share them with you.
What they say it means: Lean is a way of minimizing waste (mistakes) by turning everything into a process which workers follow exactly every time. It is a way to get employees to work as a well-oiled machine.
What it really means: We’re outsourcing your job to India.
Think about it. Their teaching someone to do the same thing, over and over again. There is no creative thought process involved, no special skill you bring to the table. Why pay you fifty bucks to read off a script and select drop down boxes when they can pay someone else five?
What they say it means: Lots of boring math stuff about standard deviation. Mainly, it goes hand and hand with Lean, measuring the deviation from the processes and how it affects profits. It’s a way of measuring the results of processes and make improvements.
What it really means: You’re going to be standing in groups around a white board, looking at boring graphs that no one understands, while your manager nods thoughtfully and asks inane questions to distract everybody from the fact that they have no idea what the graphs mean either. It is douchbaggery at its highest form. An “Emperor’s New Clothes” test on humanity.
People can actually get certified and have different levels of “belts” to make it sound like their doing something athletic. All it really means is that they paid some higher level douchebag fifteen hundred bucks so they could listen to him talk about processes and metrics. It’s the world’s most reputable pyramid scheme. I can’t believe I’m the only one that sees it.
Continuous Process Improvement
What they say it means: We are finding yet another way to say the same thing, despite all of Lean’s talk about eliminating waste. Process improvement is simply another matter of breaking every task down to a process and improving on the process by continuously eliminating waste (mistakes).
What it really means: We’re outsourcing your job to India. This is getting redundant. Look, whenever they say “process”, what their really thinking is “profits”. Either learn to love the taste of curry, or start looking for a new line of work.
What it means: We have an Asian guy in the IT department.
You want to have a good laugh? Go to any major corporation’s website and go to their section about diversity. They always have a group of people together. Try to see if the black guy in the picture has been slipped in twice. Nope, that’s not his twin, just Photoshop. It’s amazing how often they try to sneak that in.
What they say it means: We want you to have a life outside of work. That’s why everyone is salaried. We don’t want to measure your time in nickels and dimes. We want to measure it in performance.
What it really means: Work to live. You’re salaried, so they don’t have to give you overtime. Then they can load you down with so much work that you never have time to do anything else. If you fall behind, its because you’re not using time wisely and you should work later hours because you are salaried, after all. Look at the office of most places that tout work/life balance and you’ll see allot of office lights on on weekends.
The Peter Principle
This is the one I don’t need to break into subcategories. Of all the principles of management, this is the only one I believe to be true in every way. It’s simple. It’s straight forward;
“You rise to the level of your incompetence.”
This is the only principle of management that I find to be logically valid. You’re good at your job, you get promoted. You stay good, you keep getting promoted. The process continues again and again until you’re in a position where you struggle so much that you no longer get promoted. There, you’ll fester in your role until you die of a heart attack the day after you retire. You rose to the level of your incompetence. It’s the circle of life.
Well, corporate life anyway. At least until they outsource your job to India.
Everyday, while I am at work, watching my life drain away, I have the same fantasy. I fantasize that the my supervisor and the management staff will finally notice me. I want them to see what kind of employee I am. I want them to see my level dedication I have to our company.
I dream that they will pull me aside and say, “We’ve noticed you. Namely, we’ve noticed your lack of work ethic and general disdain for personal hygiene. We’re going to have to let you go.”
I want to be fired in the worst way! I want that elusive pink slip like nothing I’ve ever wanted before in my life. I have done everything I can think of. I show up late and leave early. I take 2 hour lunch breaks. At great personal risk to myself, I’ve increased my smoke breaks from 4 a day to somewhere around 37. I wear flip flops and shirts with visible nipple in a business casual environment.
Time and time again, I see people get terminated. It’s never me. It’s never me because the holy grail of the office, an excel spreadsheet that tracks all our performances, indicates that I am a “middle of the road” employee. Too suckish to promote, but just good enough not to get fired.
Apparently, if I want to reach my goal of collecting unemployment and watching reruns of NCIS and Golden Girls all day, I’m going to have to kick it up a notch. So I have devised 10 fool proof ways to obtain that blessed severance package.
10. My boss has a British accent. I could develop my own British accent and then deny all knowledge of it. “What do you mean I’m speaking with an accent? This is how I always speak, you wanker .”
9. I’ve heard it said that you should dress for the job you want. Ever since the premier of Firefly, about 10 years ago, I have believed that the only appropriate career choice for me is space cowboy. Finally, a chance to use my spurs and space helmet at the same time. I’m bringing a whole new facet to casual Friday.
8. Two words; ass copies. All of my coworkers are getting a little something special in their inboxes tomorrow.
7. Treat my job like I’m training for the Olympics. Start referring to my boss as “coach”. Every time I get off the phone, gasp like I just played thirty rounds of tennis and spray myself down with my water bottle. At the end of every work day, dump a gallon of Gatorade over my bosses head while screaming “we did it coach.”
6. Get involved in a really offensive past time and try to get my coworkers involved as well. Send out mass emails asking of anyone wants to join my Casey Anthony fan club or attend the Westboro Baptist Church picnic with me.
5. Regress to my teenage years. Dress in goth and spend all day writing angst fill poetry from my cubicle. When my boss attempts to correct me, state loudly “I didn’t ask to be born” and storm out of the room in tears.
4. Play angry birds all day in my cubicle…but not on my I phone. Play live action angry birds, where I fling dead birds I found in the parking lot at my coworkers as they walk by my cubicle.
3. Go old school. Refuse to use a computer at all and complete all my work by hand, using tools from the 1800’s, like an abacus, quills and parchment.
2. Correct all mass emails our company CEO sends out and return them, via reply all, with condescending statements like “good effort,” and “watch that comma usage.”
1. Spend all morning working on strategies to get fired, rather than doing my job.
If I really stick to my list, I think there’s a very good chance that I could be on an extended job vacation by summer. Of course, not all plans are foolproof, so I may need a few more ideas. If anybody has some, I’m open to suggestions.
Today’s article is more of a public service announcement. The phrase, “when are you due?” seems innocuous enough. A good way to make small talk in the elevator or in the line at the grocery store. It happens daily, sometimes several times a day. For the most part, it shouldn’t be a loaded question. In fact, I heard it today, directed at one of my friends, Kay*.
Problem was Kay had her baby two months ago.
I think most women have their own “When are you due?” stories. My own occurred about 6 weeks after the birth of my son. I remember it like it was yesterday even though it was more than ten years ago.
That day, I was supposed to be meeting my baby’s daddy** for lunch. It was going to be my first time going out; to somewhere beside the baby doctor or store since before I had my son. Naturally, I wanted to look traffic stopping fantastic. I’d managed to lose all but 5 pounds of pesky baby weight. I fixed my hair and taught myself how to apply makeup again. I grabbed a pre-pregnancy dress out of the closet, and after squeezing into several layers of control top panty hose and spanks, I was ready to go.
I looked wonderful…or so I thought.
I dropped off the baby at the sitter and decided to stop at the store for formula and diapers on the way. I walked in the store feeling like a million bucks. I ran out a step away from being escorted out by security.
As I stood in the isle, I was approached by a middle aged beast of a woman***. I selected a can of formula and bent to put it in my cart. As I did, I felt a pat on my belly. Middle aged beast had slapped her grimy hoof onto my tummy.
“When are you due dear?” Middle aged best quizzed me curiously, completely oblivious to the fact that I was buying diapers and formula, which would indicate the expected bundle had already arrived.
I watched her in shock for a minute, so offended that I had no idea what to say. I thought I looked great! Instead, I looked like I was still pregnant. After calming down, I started to push my way out of the isle. Then I did what any woman in my situation would have done.
I rammed her cart so hard that it fell over and her groceries fell all over the floor.
What can I say, post pregnancy hormones are crazy. After that, I cancelled lunch and went home to begin a near starvation diet. It was a long time before I tried to get dressed up again.
I can laugh about it now. I think back and I’m surprised at how hard I was on myself about the baby weight. Like it was going to disappear overnight. Up until middle aged beasts comment, I thought I was doing just fine. She set me back months, to feeling like the gross, end term, greasy pregnant monster I had been.
Today, I watched the same thing happen to Kay. She spent the afternoon looking at herself sideway in every reflection, obsessed with the baby weight. Her “when are you due?” came from a man in the elevator.
Men are the worst offenders when it comes to that phrase. They can be completely oblivious, despite every clue available that the pregnancy question may not be appropriate to ask.
Take my friend Carol****, for example. She was at a house boat party. Clue 1: Pregnant women don’t go to allot of parties on boats. Nausea and all that. When her “when are you due?” came, it came from some idiot man who could clearly see the cigar she was smoking and the tequila shot she was taking. Unfortunately, Carol is a mean drunk and the idiots answer was a prompt punch in the face.
Unless you’re about to administer medical treatment to someone, never ask them when their due. This question will never go well. Why do you need to know? Did you want to tape the delivery for the woman you just met in the elevator? Rather than risk the insult, do not ask any pregnancy related questions unless the other person initiates.
Even pregnant women don’t like it! In 6 months of obvious pregnancy, I got at that question approximately 3 billion times a day. Around the hundred thousandth time, I started to feel like a failure. Like the baby should be out already and I was doing something wrong. The whole “when are you due?” took on a decidedly accusatory air.
Small talk is easy. There’s no reason to risk putting your foot in your mouth just to pass the time. When presented with someone you think may be pregnant, ignore the elephant (no mean spirited pun intended) in the room and talk about anything else. Weather, news, rectal itching, anything but pregnancy. You’ll thank me when you narrowly avoid getting coldcocked for offending a crazed post pregnancy woman.
* name changed to letter
** yeah, I have one of those
*** She may have been pretty and young. Whatever, to me she was a beast.
**** I’m out of creative name ideas
I love Craigslist. For me, it is nothing more than a form of written reality TV. It’s where the stupid segment goes to communicate, their community sounding board, so to speak. There, they can sell their furniture to Nigerian scam artists for fake checks. They can posts rants at the government, the police and get into online fights. They can beg for free stuff. Best of all, they can post cryptic, stalkeresque messages to people they saw on the street .
Missed connections, you make my world a better place.
Not because of the romance. Not because of the possibilities. No, I really don’t believe any of that. I like missed connections for the same reason I like the first 5 to 10 episodes of American Idol. I THRIVE on the rantings of the delusional. It’s like crack to me. For instance;
I couldn’t stop staring – m4m – 40 (The “I Actually Have Respect For this Guys Privacy Restaurant” at Epcot)
You were tending bar on Saturday May 12 and you locked eyes with me a couple times. You have amazing eyes and you are so sexy hot! Wish I had been alone; I would have said hello. I would love to get to know you. Email me. I saw your nametag but will keep your name out of the post in respect for your privacy.
Whenever I see ad’s like these, I always wonder; how did he know this guy was gay? Do gay people have some secret code? Are their group meetings I was not aware of? Do they have some kind of group membership card? Like triple A?
He’s making a lot of assumptions here. First that the bartender wasn’t just looking at him to see if he needed another drink. Next, he’s assuming the guy is gay. And finally, he assumed that the bartender was attracted to him just because he was nice to him.
About 8 out of 10 of the missed connections ads I see are written to people who are in positions where they are paid to be attractive. Honest truth? You’re bartender never likes you, man or woman. They just act like they do because that’s how they get bigger tips. The stripper doesn’t only have eyes for you, the waitress doesn’t think your cute. If they did, they would just give you their number then and there. They wouldn’t be searching the internet for secret messages a week after meeting you. These people are hired for their looks and personality .They are used to being hit on. I seriously doubt they would be afraid to make a move of their own.
Finally, I like the part about respect for this guys privacy. You named the restaurant he was working at, along with the date and time. Any idiot with a little time on their hands can figure that one out. Might as well have just dropped the name.
Walking in Wekiva Springs on your birthday – w4m – 43 (Wekiva Springs State park)
You were walking with incense and mentioned that it was your 31st birthday, Tuesday May 15th. I would love to meet you again, I can’t stop thinking about you!
Ok, this one creeps me out. Why? A woman walking at alone at night, in a heavily wooded area, carrying incense, cryptically announcing that its her birthday? Dude, I think you met a ghost. Or at the very least, you met a woman on her way to a satanic ritual in the middle of the woods. May want to drop the whole missed connection thing and steer clear.
PETCO in the LOOP – mw4w (Hunters Creek)
My wife and I met you at the PETCO on Saturday. You are a petite, beautiful dog trainer. You helped us buy a collar for our dog. When you left to help another person, my wife and I both looked at each other and said, we have to get to know her. Not sure if you are into this sort of thing, but it would be fun to hook up
This assumption goes even further! How do you go from meeting someone at the most innocuous place on the planet, PetCo, to trying to hook up with them for a three way? Guy, stick to hitting on the chick at the dildo store and leave the poor dog trainer alone. Pervert.
Oh, and I really believe that collar was for your “dog”. I bet you don’t even have a dog.
Michigan Ave Gold Sign Spinner – m4m – 31 (Kissimmee)
To the really hot guy on Michigan Ave near Donegan who spins the cash for gold sign in Kissimmee, you are hot as fuck bro. I love the way you work your hips and shake your ass. You’re like a highlight of my day. I sometimes want to do a u-turn just so I can go past you again.
I’m pretty straight, but your smile gets me thinking all queer. I watch gay porn and think about fucking you. When there’s a chick going down on me I’ll sometimes think of you. I’d never have the balls to stop and say something…but hopefully you’ll see this and the next time I see you and you point at me I’ll know. Ha ha.
This is almost my favorite type. The in denial “straight” guy trying to get the gay hook up from someone he saw on the street. Here’s the thing, if you’re thinking about the Cash for Gold street sign spinner while your lady is blowing you, you’re not “pretty straight”. You’re “definitely gay”. Come to terms with it and pick up dudes the right way. Not by posting creepy messages on the internet to someone who doesn’t have an internet connection. He’s a sign spinner for god’s sake. He probably lives in the alley behind the store.
Maybe I’m a cynic. In fact, I was so concerned by my cynicism that I decided to search for some success stories from any Craigslist missed connections. I mainly found four Google search pages full of messages from Craigslist begging for missed connection stories, a few message boards full of people who were weirded out by being the object of a missed connection, and lots of 5th person narratives from people claiming to know someone who knew someone who had success with it. “My friend’s, cousins, former roommates ex-boyfriend met his wife on missed connections.”
No real success stories though. I guess if you really feel a connection with someone, its best to communicate that at the time of the meeting. If they turn you down, so be it. At least then, you’ll just be some person who hit on them one time, not their creepy internet stalker.