January 09, 2010
An open letter to the gentleman at the next table at the pub last night

What the fuck is your problem? How on earth do you think you can get away with cat-calling women at the next table as they sit down? Let alone, loudly announcing that one or more isn't as attractive as the others? You are not on a construction site; we are not passing through; we are SITTING AT THE NEXT TABLE. Do you think it's cute? Do you think it's sexy? Do you think at all? As Elizabeth so rightly responded: Fuck Off.

What the fuck is your problem? Why would you and you oafish friends (one of whom belongs on MenWhoLookLikeKennyRogers.com, which is funny but irrelevant) loudly brag about sex acts you seem to have only a passing familiarity with? Do you think you sound worldly? Because I've often heard groups of teenagers who sound more experienced than you which forces me to conclude that you and your tablemates are as full of shit as my students. Also? Your female friend needs to stop bragging about sucking dick before I find one to stuff down her throat and thus SHUT HER UP.

What the fuck is your problem? Why, after several hours of loud, stupid, oafish behavior would you then turn to the only male in the group and ask him if he "likes how that feels"? Does that question make sense to you in your drunken piggish mind? It doesn't to anyone else.

What the fuck is your problem? Do you genuinely think you could follow up with that nonsensical inquiry with a loudly muttered, "ya faggot"? Where the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Did you expect Mason to just cringe and take it, while the rest of us ignored you? Did you think that you were proving a point or uncovering some mystery for the rest of us? Did you think that two dozen people with sharp needles were going to let that pass after an evening of listening to your horseshit?

As I said last night (or rather, yelled repeatedly): Go Fuck Yourself. If I ever see you in that pub again I'm not going to stop until I have you kicked out. And the next time you call any of us a nasty name, I'm not going to even try to stop Mason from "fucking you up," like I did last night. You may think you can fuck with knitters, or guys in bars who do things you don't like, but I will end you. Believe it.

Yours in Christ,


P.S. Just a final heads-up: What the fuck were you thinking? You're fat, stupid and ugly. You really shouldn't be throwing stones at the people you see, who quickly realize that those things on this outside are less important than the fact that on the inside you are nothing but a turd.

Despite leaving the bar shaking with unused adrenaline, I had a good time last night. Mason and I preceded knit night with a date at an excellent Irish pub, where the food was just a smidge better than the atmosphere, which was sublime. Today we got up unconscionably early so that I could do a free dance demo with Valizan, and we had a chance to explore the almost-revoltingly cute downtown area of Bronte. Then! Korean bbq for lunch, new work clothes for us both, and an hour at the gym with my brother. I always feel guilty about this, but I have to be honest: a child-free weekend is awesome when you do it right. This Saturday couldn't be any righter and still take place in public.

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