Dear Tracy-Anne Collins,
For weeks now you -- or more specifically someone on your behalf -- has been sending me emails telling me how excited you are to meet me. I think there has been some confusion, and I feel it is my duty to clear the air of all misunderstandings.
First of all, if you want a date, you damn well better ask me yourself. Today's email came from Alex George, whose email address actually says Mary Hernandez. Color me skeptical, but I think somebody is fishy here. Who is this Alex George and why is s/he using Mary Hernandez's account? I should give you fair warning that I've seen all ten seasons of Law and Order, plus a fair number of Hawaii-5-0s, Matlocks, Murder She Wrotes, Ironsides and Kojaks, so you'd better think twice before trying to pull a fast one on me. I didn't just fall off the tuna truck, you know.
Additionally, although I'm no Miss Manners, I think it's pretty bad form to make somebody else do your secretarial work, especially where dating is concerned. I'm no Roxanne, and I'm betting you're no Cyrano either, so buck up little camper, and send your own emails.
Oh, and I'm not even going to get into the discussion of the subject line of said emails. That's nasty, baby.
Next. Despite the earlier emails that quite frankly bordered on desperate -- ok, they were just pitiful -- you or your secretarial team may have noticed that I never responded. Miss Tracy-Anne Collins, no offense, but I don't want to go on a date with you, despite your last ditch effort this morning to let me know that 1. you are in great shape, and 2. your biggest asset is your clevage [sic]. Again, I hate to tell you this, but cleavage just isn't that big of a draw for me. I've got my own, thanks. And something tells me that those who cannot spell cleavage probably don't have much of one anyway. I'm just saying.
I understand your home is within 1.5 miles of me. This, of course, made me all tingly (NOT THAT WAY) wondering where you live. Are you the annoying neighbors with the multitude of yapping dogs? Are the fastidious neighbor down the road who sweeps her driveway with a broom every single morning? Do you pass me in the grocery store, glancing at me furtively while lightly fingering the scrubbing bubbles toilet brushes?
WARNING: DO NOT USE FOR PERSONAL HYGIENE. THIS MEANS YOU, MISS TRACY-ANNE COLLINS!
I know my night with you has been CONFIRMED, and that you want me to dress nice and bring clothes fresh for the morning. I just can't let the morning pass without letting you know, Miss Tracy-Anne Collins that much like Miss Otis, Miss GreenTuna regrets she is unable to lunch today. I have neither the time nor the inclination to sip wine and look at your house. I should think, being a woman of the 21st century, you would have better things to do as well.
I suggest perhaps you might try turning off your computer for awhile. Instead of spamming and scamming your way into my heart, why don't you venture out some Friday night. It is a college town, afterall, and I'm sure there are plenty of desperate youngsters around who would love nothing more than to gaze upon your ample assets. If you don't have a car, don't worry. I'm sure the clue bus will be along any time to help you out.