I got another dick pic!
Just kidding. April Fools. But this is such a goodie, couldn’t refuse sharing again.
Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
This not-in-the-slightest fairytale post contains a blurred out dick pic I received as a love note.
It all started with an innocent girl’s night out. My friends and I rarely get together, as everyone is busy with work, husbands and offspring (I of course, am extremely busy with my mini manse full of fur balls).
Wild gal nights out no more as procreating became a focus point for everyone but yours truly.
Several years ago, I found myself single and when our gaggle of gals ran into a group of Ohio guys at a honky tonk, my bestie G (you know, the one who almost got in a fist fight to defend my honor against an 80-year-old man) chatted up a nice fellow who had recently moved to Music City. At the end of their 82 second conversation, she turned to me giddily exclaimed, “I gave him your number!”
OK, so maybe I was overreacting a tad.
I looked at the dude who was obviously an old frat guy (you know the look – “fancy” leather flip flops, khaki shorts, golf shirt tucked in with a belt typically accompanied by swoopy bangs on forehead (affectionately called Bama Bangs) – at least in the South anyway – but this guy had a shaved head) I thought it wouldn’t kill me to put my toe back in the dating pond, as dude looked harmless.
Something along the lines of these guys. So NOT my type.
Being that I’m from Iowa, I assumed Mr. Ohio and I could bond over Big Ten football (even though I loathe THE Ohio State Buckeyes). So I talked to the guy for about four entire minutes, he asked if I’d like to go to happy hour the following week and I accepted.
And soon after wished I hadn’t.
The following day I received no less than 23 texts and tried to be a good sport before turning into an extremely annoyed lady –
Nice meeting you last night! You too.
What’s for breakfast? I don’t cook.
Send me a pic! You know what I look like, I just met you last night.
What’s your last name? No Googling before our date.
Are you on Facebook? Isn’t everyone?
And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on until I finally said (at 7:30pm) that I was going to bed.
Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I reached out to G and my sister who both thought maybe this guy was simply nervous and overly anxious for our date in a few days.
OK, OK maybe I wouldn’t write him off – yet.
But then, I received this the following morning…
Thought you might like this.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what the hell to say. Who sends half naked pictures to a chick when she’s already said yes to a date?
That you’ve only talked to for 240 seconds?
My silence seemed to only pique his interest more.
Do you like piercings on guys? No response.
Do you want me to pick you up at 7:30 or 8pm? No response. (Although we said happy hour you stupid fuck and I might as well put my photo on a milk carton if I give you my address).
Do you have any tattoos I’ll be surprised to find? No response but fucking seriously?
And after forwarding everything to my sister and G, I got two similar responses:
CRAIGSLIST KILLER CANCEL DATE IMMEDIATELY
Of course I was already in the process of excusing myself from hanging with this psycho because I was sure to be hog tied and either end up at the bottom of the Cumberland River or in one of his apartment rooms for 3.4 years before eventually gnawing through my own arm to escape.
Either way, no thanks.
Here’s how it went as I tenderly tried to turn him down…
Now I’m sure you’re thinking that I went easy on him as I used the word “reschedule” which I’d soon regret. But I didn’t know how much this D-Bag knew about me, having my phone number, so I went for the easing out of it approach.
Which didn’t seem to work well because this kept happening (I’ve blurred out anything associated with my job)…
D-Bag kept sending me pictures of himself sitting at his desk, “funny” memes he’d found online and asking how I was doing. My silence was turning out not to be so golden.
The photo below came the evening that we were supposed to be meeting for drinks and I suppose it was allowing me to see just what I was missing out on.
Oh gee, you look like 874,912 men that reside in Nashville.
At my usual Friday night happy hour, I was laughing and showing friends what D-Bag had been sending over and over with no response from me and another photo popped up.
THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!
He thought I might like this?!
My initial reaction:
As the entire bar turned to look at our table because yours truly couldn’t stop screaming, “DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST FUCKING SEND THAT?!”
I happened to be sitting next to First Mate at the time – much to her arm’s dismay as I almost ripped it off upon seeing the penis of a complete stranger with whom I’d had a four (FOUR!) minute conversation.
Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.
I’m pretty sure I single-handedly polished off a bottle of Jager before stumbling home to pass out in the comforting paws of Ted.
Please be a mind eraser. Please.
When someone doesn’t respond to your naked picture you’d think that would be the biggest hint of all time, like a neon sign blinking “STOP TEXTING ME YOU CRAZY ASS CLOWN” but it turns out this douche really wanted to get together.
When he didn’t stop, I was going insane trying not to respond. Naturally, I was discussing this with everyone from work friends to girlfriends to my family. We couldn’t decide if going to the police would make him angry (or crazier) and if I responded, it would most likely egg him on.
Stop the madness!
I thought of sending a pic of me with runaway bride eyes (remember that Georgia lady and her eyes?!) and one of Camo’s menacing guns, D-Bag might piss himself and leave me alone.
Yes, it would be aimed at his penis.
But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.
By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.
You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.
Nope. Don’t do it.
You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.
Seriously. Don’t even think about it.
And you most certainly don’t fuck with a picture happy blogger who will be sure everyone knows that you, a gigantic D-Bag, work at the downtown Nashville Omni hotel where you started as a Project Manager from Ohio but are now permanently residing in Music City.
There also may or may not be flyers up of him in all of his glory at the hotel.
Bloggers mean business.
Sorry you if you can’t erase the images above from your mind.
But I just had to share because as D-Bag said…
I thought you might like it.