Thursday, May 01, 2008

Dear Diary

(I saw my friend Amanda this week and she wanted me to post one of her favorite old Thrush TV blogs of mine, so here goes:)

Dear Diary:

I logged onto to some “dating” site a few days ago and promptly found an offer from "two very hot guys willing to satisfy one woman's darkest and wildest fantasies."

So I wrote:

"Yeah, I'll take you up on your offer. When can we satisfy my darkest and wildest fantasies?"

A bit later, I received an email:

"Whoa, not so fast! Let's talk a little first. Get to know one
another. How about all this snow?"

I responded:

"Oh yeah, snow…crazy. When do you think you two can fulfill my darkest and wild fantasies?"

(Now, I realize this all sounds a bit forward but I was actually being pragmatic. The winter was bearing down and I felt the need to store up on sex, much like a squirrel stores nuts. And this way, I’d get twice as many nuts.)

They responded:

"Wow, you're a real take charge gal! LOL. Okay, well, how would you like to do this? Your place or ours?"

"How about your place. Or better yet a hotel. Let's embrace the anonymity of it all. How about this Friday night?"

A few minutes passed by...maybe longer:

"I can do Friday night but not until after 9. I have a business party. Tom can't do Friday night at all because he's getting a root canal that day and doesn't want to be uncomfortable for our "meeting."

This was becoming what is referred to in the industry as a real "buzz kill." Root canal? Uncomfortable? What were we going to talk about next? Fabric softener? Flossing habits? Lactose intolerance?

"Okay, fine. What about Sunday night then? (Saturday night I was planning on...nothing. I just didn't want to look too desperate.)

They responded:

"Well Tom can do Sunday night but there's an Oscar party that night I don't want to miss. Do you like the Oscars? I do."

I took a deep breath before answering:

"Actually, I don't give a rat's ass about the Oscars or Tom’s dumb old root canal. I do care about my darkest and wildest fantasies being fulfilled. And pronto. But its obvious you do not have the showmanship to live up to your promise. I wish no further contact. You're a mad disappointment."

They had the nerve to respond:

"Oh well...your loss."

I answered:

"I think I'll live."

They responded:

"You're a retard."

I responded:

"It takes one to know two."

And that's how it ended. In a blaze of juvenile insults that included the word "retard."

I poured myself a glass of barely respectable wine and sat down on the living room couch and contemplated my situation.

I knew the next time I pursued a sordid sexual experience, it would be with two guys who would never tell me about their dental work. Or their love of the Oscars.

The men who I would meet one imaginary night in a blank and bare hotel room would have missed their mother's funeral for our "meeting."

They would be two strapping, bold and serious men who take their ménage a troises seriously. Is that so much for a girl to ask? For people to take their ménage a troiseses seriously?

It was to be a cold winter after all.

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