I’m sure you saw the title of this post and the header image.
Let’s get this one over with, shall we?
A few weeks ago, a rando on Twitter sent me a DM out of nowhere. This was not someone whom I follow or who follows me. Just wanna make that fact clear. It was some chick with a very Russian sounding name–so obviously my alarm bells were going off that I should be on high alert. Biased? Maybe. Do I feel bad about it…well, I’m just liberal enough that I felt like I should feel bad…but I didn’t. Anyhoozles, the conversation started out pretty innocuously. Here’s the jist of how it went:
Russian Sleeper Agent (allegedly): How are you today?
Me: I’m well. How’re you? (I get fancy when frightened)
RSA: I’m well. You seem so happy. You’re even smiling big in your profile picture.
Me: I’m a happy guy.
RSA: I’m just feeling a bit lonely.
Me: Maybe a dating app will help then?
RSA: I tried. All the guys there want to talk dirty or get sexy pics.
Me: That’ll happen. People are awful.
RSA: Are you single?
Me: No. Happily married. *smiley face*
RSA: I have so much trouble finding anyone interested.
Me: Have you considered that maybe randomly approaching strangers on a site not intended for dating is a bad approach to your problem?
She stopped DM’ing me after that. Which was where I was trying to guide this interaction without being too rude (just in case this ended up on CNN or something). But, I’m sure that I’m not the first guy this has happened to, so I’m not all that offended. Being a heavyset (read: fat as hell) fellow, I know I’m a target for pretty women with an agenda. They think we’re desperate and will leap at any flirtation. Unfortunately for this particular woman, I *am* happily married to a woman. I’m also queer, so even if I was single, at best, she had a 20/80 shot–and that’s under the best of conditions. That’s like catching lightning in a bottle. And do you want to waste your effort with such little odds on a total dumpster fire like me? Rethink your life choices, Agent Smirnoff. Tell Dyadya Putin I said “Sup” and to give Trump his meds. He’s been extra crazy on the Tweeter lately.
Side note: I can already see the ticker on CNN announcing the unusual circumstances surrounding my death.
It’s either that or an eventual stroke. At least death at the hands of the Russian and/or American government will make a good footnote in my biography.
Anyway…fast forward a week or two, and I get another strange DM. This time from some dude. And by dude–I mean some old man wearing a gimp mask in his profile picture. How do I know he was old if he was wearing a gimp mask? Great question, friend-o. The zipper mouth part was open and I could see wrinkles and a patchy white beard. This wasn’t exactly a spring chicken that I was dealing with, okay?
This DM didn’t lead off with the “Hey, how are you?” formalities that you find in polite conversation. No. It consisted of two pictures. I can’t show them here because my lawyers said that was not advisable–and management (JoJo/the missus) told me that Hell would rain down if I even thought about it. “Hell” is what we call her left hook. But…I can describe them. One was a picture of a selection of “sexual implements” displayed on a bed. The other was a picture of his…undercarriage. That picture also clued me into the man’s age since the throw rug matched the window treatments. Ya’ feel me?
So…again…trying to not end up on CNN as the “rude motherfucker from Twitter”, I just responded, “No, thanks.”
Why didn’t I just ignore it? That’s not who I am as a person. That’s the only explanation I can give you. That and, when shit like this goes down, my first instinct is to always pull up a chair. On the best of days, I have fuck all going on, so I live to see how shit like this is going to play out. I’m a blogger. I have a process.
Peepaw Gimpy McSpanksalot responded with, “Okay. Thanks for not being rude. Everyone else always is.”
Look. I didn’t respond to that. But internally, my thought was, “Maybe because you send pictures of your dungeon devices and your wrinkled old…business…to people that you haven’t even said ‘hello’ to? Unsolicited.”
Just to be clear. I’m not making fun of this man’s age. His age is incidental. But the fact remains that Peepaw was behaving like a college frat boy with a leather fetish that has most likely reached clinical levels.
I really wanted to give Peepaw Slappy McTieMeUp advice. First and foremost being that he needed to join Grindr (those are his people) and give Twitter a break, but I felt that just wasn’t my place.
Here’s The Thing™–what the actual fuck?
I’m 39 (as of July 29th) and I’ve never dealt with this kind of shit in my life as much as I do now. When I was of the age that dating, flirting, promiscuous sex, and living it up was a daily occurrence and socially acceptable, we didn’t even have T.V., let alone the interwebs. We had to move the boulder from in front of the cave, walk to the next village over, avoiding dinosaurs and other predators, and club prospects over the head before dragging them miles back to our cave before commanding them to “LOOK AT THIS PICTURE OF MY DICK!”
We had to put in the work.
We didn’t have cameras, so it was really just an etching on the stone wall of our living room/cave. And that’s if we survived the entire ordeal. A lot of us died in the process from exposure or Wolly Mammoth stampedes. Side note: if you signed up for the annual candlelight vigil for our fallen brothers and sisters, I already signed up to bring the cookies. We don’t need to double up, Norman.
Who’s Norman? Nunyabidness. He knows what he’s done.
Anyhoozles…living in the digital age is exhausting. For a long time, only pretty girls/women had to worry about creeps. Now? Now we all get harassed on a daily basis, thanks to the interwebs and a complete eroding of social norms. I’m not saying that it was okay for the females of our species to have to deal with this type of fuckery–just that I felt, as a fat dumpster fire of a “man”, I’d never have to worry about opening my DM’s to find Peepaw of the Ye’ Olde Dildo Collection’s dick pic waiting for my evaluation.
Oy Vey. Why did I stop drinking?
Until next time…