A Missed Connection Callback...

w4m: Hi. I accidentally walked into the Starbucks men's restroom yesterday. It was at the Bridgeway Drive location, at around 4 pm. Could the gentlemen at urinals 4, 7, and 12 give me a call?
Carol (717) 682-50--

p.s. #5, you're flying standby.

Hello. Carol?

Hey, I’m good. My name’s Gregory. I noticed your missed connection and thought I’d give you a call.

Well, that’s what I was wondering about—were you counting from the front or the back?

What I mean is, do the numbers for the urinals start at the one closest to the stall, or the door?

Well, I think that’s valid.

No, I wasn’t the 9 incher.

No, not the 7 and a half either.

Half-Swiss, half-Persian.

I’m not sure I’m comfortable telling you that.

Okay, I don’t think you got a clean look—it’s not a...what do you call it...a show-er, it’s the other kind.

What I’m saying is, I don’t think you can accurately assess that from where you were standing.

Measuring stick—that is funny. Listen, I don’t think it’s fair to compare me to somebody else’s. What if I started comparing your breasts to other women’s?

Yes, they are pretty massive, but that’s not the point.

I know, I’m not saying they’re not great, I’m just saying maybe I could think they’re small or even too big if you stood next to...

...yes, my dick—that is funny. You’ve got a wonderful sense of humor, Carol. Maybe we can just start over?

No, my penis would still be the same size.

Hello?

I farted, and—I’m pretty sure—ruined the mood

W4Whomever:

My name’s Gretchen and I live at 1228 Feldling Drive, Brisbane, CA.

I’ve got a 12-pack of Pabst and my underwear off—first one through this door gets some poon.

--Gretch

p.s. There may be an honorable mention awarded.

m4w--

Hi! This is for Katrina. My name’s Jacques. We met in the elevator at the Doubletree Hotel in Seattle, Washington. On our “ride” to the lobby, you said seductively you were “always happy to be going down,” to which I coolly remarked that I couldn’t wait till we were “finally on your floor.” Then I farted, and—I’m pretty sure—ruined the mood. Mulligan?

--Jacques

917-645-82--

Woman for Man:

This is for the well-dressed, handsome 50 yr old downed by a heart attack near Saks Fifth Avenue. You looked cute; did you make it? If so, give me a call—I’ll be gentle.

Meredith 202-747-91--

$40 OBO

WANTED:

Entry-level, CEO-salary positions available! No experience necessary (three to five years in-house experience preferred though, as well as a knowledge of Quark, Excel, Dreamweaver, and Latin)! One of the country’s fastest-growing and most stable industries needs aggressive self-starters who think creatively and take excellent direction in a laid-back, high-octane atmosphere! Only the hardest-working, most-fun-loving candidates need apply (others may as well)! We are an equal-opportunity employer (please stand at least 6’2”, 200—we like our employees to seem domineering, in a polite non-threatening way). Send your resume and $20 hiring deposit immediately!

FOR SALE:

Crossbow with rope-arrow—only fired once. Aims a little low. Mint condition except for congealed apple bits, hair, and blood. $40 OBO.

ARE YOU GOING TO MEXICO???
I need a ride to Mexico—no specific city or region, just Mexico. Must be a moderate to exceptional liar. Also, large, deep trunk necessary. Hatchback, okay.

Sal

If You Weren't Barren and Loveless...

October 31^st, 1806

Josephine,

I think I may have found somebody else. Someone more attractive and more adventurous than you in the bedroom (God, is she ever adventurous. Do you know what she can do with her bustle and two bottles of red wine? Whew. I’ll tell you later…). And you should see her lithe, alabaster legs stark naked in Vienna’s moonlight. Like a pair of well-crafted German muskets. Not like those Belgian blunderbusses of yours.

Sometimes I think, “hey, you’d like her,” and sometimes I just don’t care. She probably wouldn’t like you. She’s cultured and well-born. Quotes Goethe freely. Can translate the phrase, “What, again my little Conqueror?” into five languages—each more seductive than the last. Her name’s Gelda. Try not to let it invade your nightmares and taunt you from across Europe. Gelda. It’s a sweet name though, huh? Gelda. We could name our daughter after her. If you weren’t barren and loveless.

Your emperor/husband,

Napoleon B.

I am a Mess Without You!

November 3^rd, 1978

Sabrina, My Sun, My Life!

Woe! Woe! Woe! Three times, three times woe! How my heart and whole body aches! Where are you, my Love? You said you would write me everyday, yet I have not heard from you. Have you found someone else? Tell me his name and I will flay his face-skin, wearing it as a mask so you may love us both! Look, Sabrina, look at how jealous I’ve become! I ask after you in all the towns. If someone has seen you, I flog his family for looking upon your raw beauty without my eyes. If someone hasn’t, I flog his family for his ignorance of love’s true face.

Can’t you see, my dearest? I am a mess without you! Come back to me before I do something stupid.

Your Miserable Tyrant,

Pol

p.s. Sorry about threatening torture to your mother over the phone. It’s just, sometimes, she can be so condescending. It really unnerves me.
Call me, my pet. OK to reverse the charges.

Tough Cookies, Sister

October 10^th, 1806

Josephine,

Listen: if I hear so much as an unsubstantiated rumor that you’re even looking at anything that reproduces, I will march back to Paris this instant and strangle it to death in front of your sex-crazed eyes, you sex-crazed devil-woman. You love only ME. Got that? That means no touching, talking to, hearing, or looking at anything else. Ever. I’m having General DeGrenier construct a sensory deprivation chamber to make this all possible (he knows that if he even looks at you, I’ll finely dice him in the guillotine, add chicken stock and leeks, and feed him to the poor he despises so much). When—and only when—I return from conquering native lands for the glory of France, you may exit this device and commence the joy of loving me. Before that, meals will be fed to you via a tube by a pre-pubescent girl from a virtuous family wearing a cast-iron suit. “Potty breaks” won’t happen. Tough cookies, sister. Loving me is a full-time job, and it’s time for you to do some dirty-work (although you better bathe before I return—let the General know via the emergency communication hatch and he will evacuate the closest six arrondissements).

Thinking of you pretty much every other day,

Napoleon Bonaparte

p.s. You should see how these Austrian women dress…Time to conquer some fertile lands (I’m suggestively wagging my brows).

Love is a Gulag

March 12^th, 1948

Cher Beatrice,

How I wish I was this letter! That I was held so sweetly in your hands! So caressed by your gentle eyes! Tell me, dahling, what you’ve been up to. Tell me how much you miss your little schmoopsy! Here in Moscow "we’re" initiating peasant collectivization for increased agricultural output. BOring. You should see how these kulaks whine! I say, “You don’t know real pain, cow-clod. Try being separated from your one true muffin-pie. Try that, ignoramus.” They just look at me and blink, smelling like beggar-winos (whinos, more like!). I kick their tushies with the boots you gave me. My “stomping boots,” I call them. Perhaps we can use these in the dress-up game when you return (when, when, when???)? Maybe, I was thinking, you can wear them and I can pretend to be a drunken kulak? I’m open to other suggestions. Only no more with the other guys; they make me feel jealous and insecure (aren’t those really the same feelings, my little lust-goddess?). How I do miss you! I think I will fuck the horse that brings you back to me…

Ton amour,

J. Stalin

p.s. I wrote you a song: “Love is a Gulag.” It’s got a terrific backbeat (my aides all say so). I can’t wait to sing it for you.

p.p.s. I included a wonderful harmonica solo in C sharp.

p.p.p.s. You don’t think the thing about the horse is weird, do you? I don’t have to do it. I would like to, though.

Love Letters From Dictators

September 18^th, 1978

My Love, My Light, My Sabrina!

Cambodia has not been the same since you left, my dearest Darling! War no longer slakes my manly thirst. Now, I crave a much more violent and divine elixir! It is YOU! I must have you before my loins burst their fleshy prisons! Come back to me, Sweetest! For I will build an entire city in your stunning and sexy honor! And the town’s artists will construct for you beautiful statues in your heavenly likeness—else I will cut off their hands for blasphemy and force them to cauterize the wounds with the flaming timbers of their family’s ancestral home. And once the statues and monuments that herald your unparalleled beauty and creamsicle thighs (my loins almost burst again!) are erected (there they go!!) I will yolk the populace in the slavery of your whims. What amuses you, my Pumpkin? A legless boy wrestling a priest? You shall have it! A homosexual dragged through the streets by his testicles? Oh, that and so much more! Name your desires and I will ruthlessly enact them!

How your absence tortures me! I am like that legless boy, pummeled and suplexed by an unwilling priest compelled by martial force to eviscerate the boy’s spleen with his bare hands! I can almost feel the crippled boy’s pain, nerve by nerve—although not quite. Please, my Beauty, remove my loins from the vice-grips of your insatiable love!

Return to me!

Your Slave and Despot,

Pol Pot

Scenarios in Which I Quit

I ask Assistant Manager Matt Feinard to cover my register for a quick bathroom break. He, of course, refuses, citing his excuse: “I'm sorry, Buddy, but I’m really really busy.” I nod and when he turns, take a dump in the grocery bag of the next customer, charging them $7.99 for the pleasure. I ask down the line if anyone is purchasing toilet paper—offering them cuts as a trade. I wait for the sirens.

Devin Brice again asks to trade shifts (his Saturday night ["concert, dude"] for my Monday morning). Blinding him with an open package of flour, I kidney-punch him twice and hoist his coke-thin body into the air, vaulting him "hulk-style" into the refrigerated section. Clapping the excess flour from my hands, I tell him he’s welcomed to all the goddam shifts of mine he wants, and I grab a cold six-pack on my way out the door.

A customer wearing one of those cell-phone ear pieces asks me a 2-page list of questions concerning the freshness of mangoes. I pay no attention to them whatsoever, pretending to believe, instead, that they're having a phone conversation about the freshness of mangoes. The customer finally taps my shoulder and I immediately wrestle them into a 4-point restraint, eating whole their Bluetooth.

Lame Bragging from the New Guy

http://mcsweeneys.net/2007/2/19lacrampe.html

Walter Payton and the Vienna Boy's Choir

Hi, I approached you at Tin Lizzie’s and I offered to buy you a drink (Vodka Tonic, if I remember). You told me to go to Hell.

Well, I’m fucking here…now what?

Todd 312-661-90--

Bonjour, this is for the little Lady at the Stardust lounge playing the slots last night. I’m the Kool Kat who spilled my drink all over your friend and then offered to have her dress dry-cleaned (I also told you that joke about Walter Payton and the Vienna Boy’s Choir).
Well, turns out, I’m a little short on money this month, so I ended up giving your friend a fake number. But, I was thinking…maybe we could go out sometime for a drink or a picnic.

Maybe just a walk (cash shortage still)?
Give me a call (weekends or nights, please).
Here’s the “real” one: (715)866-12--.

--Ronald

p.s. I don’t have to tell you not to tell your friend, do I?

For ALL the Ladies...

You know, Girls, the only thing better than being me, is doing me.

Philip Carthwright 707-314-55--

p.s. And the only thing better than doing me, is doing me twice.

Hilda's Dildas

Hi. Gretchen, it’s Steve. As you probably know from the phone calls and freeway billboards, I’m madly in love with you. I have been for a number of degrading and tortuous years. 787 days, 10 hours, and 6 minutes, actually. Yes, it’s that kind of torture—the one where you count the days and hours and minutes of your maniacal depression. Well, I’m tired of it.

I bought a voodoo doll from this crazy, one-armed lady in Bakersfield.
Either love me back or I’ll methodically torture you by proxy.

Love always,

Steve (817) 426-83--

p.s. I’ve also gone through your trash for the last 22 months, so I can leak out some pretty nasty secrets. Like your itemized purchases from Hilda’s Dildas ($365.41).

m4m. For the coffeeshop cutie on Clay St. last weekend in Pacific Heights:
Remember me? My dog bit your face.
Call me when the stitches heal (if the scarring isn’t too bad; was on the fence about you)
Marvin (925) 707-34--

w4w: Hey, this is for Rebecca.

My name is Wendy from Santa Monica. We met January 26^th, just before 12:15 pm, at the LA Planned Parenthood on Wilshire. We were both waiting for appointments with…well, whatever…you remember. Anyways, that whole day I was thinking to myself: Why do we have to deal with all this bullshit?

Then I saw you and I thought, hey, maybe we don’t.

Call me.

Wendy (310) 540-77--

We Could Be Pyrotechnical Together

M4W
For the blind cutie eating out at Bennigans last night:

I was the 5’8”…I mean, 6’3” acne-riddled…sorry, tanned heartthrob—with rail-thin…ahem...athletic arms and a broken…I mean, perfect smile.

Anyways, can I take you out for a night on the town? Or perhaps a relaxing meal in my parent’s basement (it doesn't really matter, right?)?

--Martin (656) 435-76--

Call me if you read this...oh...shit.

w4m: Hi! We shared a commuter train on the way back from Saturday’s football game. I was over on the left side of the car, wearing a black halter top and blue jeans. You sat directly across from me and had your entire body painted green and were trading head punches with a couple of friends for most of the way. Over by the Hillsboro stop, we shared a smile and I almost (!) got up the nerve to ask for your phone number. But then your buddy with the chain-mail vest suddenly puked on that frail old guy, and you got pretty busy.

Call me next time you’re free!! You seem like a catch (get it!?!)!

Cheryl 503-909-420--

You were the tall woman at the Lakeview Trader Joes at around 8 last night who swallowed whole a Cadbury egg (jesus!). I was the man shopping for plantains who sprung wood.
As soon as you noticed my erection, you looked away, ashamed (of what? of being two passionate people with needs? Needs that need each other?).

I hope you're looking now, because, Baby, I think we could be pyrotechnical together.

Neil (212) 845-61--

Let's kindle some loving over my fire-wood.

Take 'er Easy

The Lady in Leather Skirt and Boots w/ the banging body on Telegraph,
Okay, so you’re not a whore (yet). But I’m telling you, we could make some big money together…set your own hours; work from home!

--Wolf (The 1200 block of Telegraph)

w4m: My name’s Esmerald and I caught sight of you way back during the 1924 World’s Fair out there in St. Louie (we necked near the Tilt-a-whirl). Anyhow, you still kicking? Write me an epistle if you want to “tongue-gel” some more (say what was I eating over by the Ferris Wheel so I know it’s you; hint: I don’t remember)
Esmerald May Wickham
1017 Horseshoe Lane
Bethesda, MD

m4w: Hey Maggie-the-receptionist-at-Dr. Dawes:
The doc cleared me on everything but early-stage syphilis (gave me a week’s supply of antibiotics and told me to take ’er easy). Care to celebrate in 7 days?!? I’ll either be at the Lonely Gentleman’s Bar or Nadine’s Bordello.

Stop by! We'll fuck!
--Carson

Sorry for the Incidental Boob Touch

This is for Mandy at Mulligan’s last night: As I was about to say before your boyfriend started sling-shot-ing punches to my face, my name is Peter. Hi.

--Peter

p.s. He seems violent. You should dump him.
Give me a call and we’ll talk about it.

(sorry for the incidental boob touch).

(717) 645-88--

w4m: You were the guy who accidentally (I hope) ran over his neighbor’s dog. I was the woman who offered you a blanket, then bound the dog w/ ankle weights and helped you dispose of the body at sea (also told you about spraying the area w/ ammonia to remove any DNA evidence). Anyway, I felt some sex chemistry. Let’s experiment?

--Beatrice (408) 672-15--

Margret: I’m having an affair w/ your friend, Ashley. We need to talk; I think we should get a divorce.

Bryan Wheeler

Ps. Jory or Kardon, if you boys find this, go get mommy—she’s probably doing her fucking “isometrics” (guzzling wine by the quart) in the basement—tell her there’s something she needs to read.

Heart Shards

This isn’t a romantic Missed Connection or anything. I’m just looking for the whereabouts of my dear, dear friend Bob Wienkle.
Bob? Hey there, buddy. How are you? You well?
God, Bob, I'm so lonely. I sure do miss you, buddy. Miss you a lot. We had some good times, didn't we? Remember...heh, heh...remember that time I broke my right leg in something like six spots and you just cradled me in your arms for hours? God, I love you. I really do. I love you so much it hurts—hurts worse than breaking my leg in six spots and not getting to the hospital for 8 hours because your friend is just cradling you in his arms instead of calling 911. But, buddy, not being around you is like having my heart broken in like 20 million spots. And the heart-shards are razor-sharp and poke into my lungs and ribs and other organs, and it hurts really bad—worse than that leg and love thing. And there's no hospital for heartbreaks. None that I know of, anyway (if anybody out there knows of one, please let me know).
Well, this is gone on longer than I expected, Bobby. I really just wanted to say, "Howdy," and see how you were doing. No need to write back or anything. Unless of course you want to. Hell, I'd love to hear from you. Even if it's just a few words of encouragement in this, my darkest, dimmest hour. Or simply to hear the glorious tenor of your voice beckoning me to heel at your side forever. Either one; your choice. Well, take care, buddy. I pray to the sweet heavenly father I hear from you soon. Otherwise, I don't know what I'll do.

--Sam Jesop

p.s. With the strength of my love I can crush you into tiny, lovable pieces that I will never let go of. Take that anyway you want.

p.p.s. I constructed an exact replica of you out of paper maiche. Stop by and take a look; I think you'll appreciate the craftsmanship.

Ugly Guy

All right Mr. Wexley, let’s just have a look at your resume here. Wow. This looks great. I see you worked with Eli in Watches. Wowsers. Impressive stuff. I’ve got to say, this is perfect. You’re just what we’re looking for. An exact fit. Now, I want to tell you a little bit about the role. It’s a small part, but it’s a meaty one. Let me just set the scene for you: Ben Stiller and Kate Hudson have just broken up their engagement after a horrible fight over artichokes or leeks (we haven’t decided), and the audience gets to see them in a hilarious split-screen montage of first dates. The part that you’re going to play is called “Ugly Guy” in the last scene here on page 77. Now, you’ve only got one line but it’s a good one…where is it…oh, yes, you say with that hideous lisp of yours: “I heard that lobster is an age-old aphrodisiac.” And that’s when Kate Hudson turns to the waiter and quickly changes her order to a steak. Ha! But it’s going to be even funnier than that, because we’re going to contrast Kate’s horrendous evening with you, the “Ugly Guy,” with Ben’s date—a beautiful Swedish tennis star. And what’s even funniest is that all of you guys are in the same restaurant! Pretty cool, huh? So, I don’t even need you to audition for me. I’m ready to sign the papers on this thing. You’ve got the look we’re looking for—a laughably sad ugliness. It’s as simple as that. You’re our man! What do you say?

The Greedy Beaver

This is for a George Mendes (sp?): My wife and I picked you up from the corner of Van Buren and 12^th Street last weekend, and we took you home so you could have sex with my wife while I watched from the shadows. Thing is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I mean, was there some kind of spark between us or what?
Anyway, having a bit of trouble finding you (do you guys have your own specific corner or something?), but can’t wait to see you again (whether it’s you and my wife again or just us this time, it doesn’t matter to me—I’ll take you anyway I can get you).

Call my cell if you want a hot meal.

Larry (602)838-64--

To the woman outside O’Kane’s who told me I had a terrible view of women:
Do you mind sending another one along, and I’ll try taking a look at her?

--Jacob McNamara (boo-ya, bitch!)

m4w: Hey, this is for Krystal. Yesterday, I purchased the Executive Lap Dance from you over at The Greedy Beaver on Briar and Chestnut (almost did nut on your chest, te-he-he). During the “show” we talked a little about John Maynard Keynes and then mostly about nipple pasties. Anyway, I think there’s some great chemistry between us. What’s say we go dutch over some lunch?

Gregory (917) 318-32--

p.s. Wear something a bit more appropriate, please.

p.p.s. Although you're still welcomed to grind me.

Man4All the World's Available Poonanny!

Hi. My name is Cindy Sweets and I’m on the lookout for that sssssimmering sexpot in glasses and the Chronicles of Narnia tee I saw over at Best Buy. Your pasty flab and raw masculinity leave me begging for a pounding.
Call me, let's talk for hours. I’ll be wetting for you….
1-900-Licks-It

Man4All the World’s Available Poonanny:
Ladies! The Legend’s out of his relationship and looking to clean the glass. Let’s start filling out that dance card, huh?
I set-up a website: www.slotsforsluts.com
Good times!

m4m: You were the tall, dark, and handsome dreamsicle eating brunch at Mickey’s with your wife and kids. I was the trim Chip’n’Dale with the chilequiles and the fetching stare.
And, yes, I already know: That was inappropriate for me to follow you and your family out to the car. But please call me!! Ted 909-510-60--

The Flying Pig

This is for Brandy Tomlinson: We went out to TGIF’s for Jack Daniel’s appetizers last week and then I walked you back to your apartment.
Okay. I just found out that do you want a cup of coffee is some sort of code for sex. And, in that case, sweet Jesus, YES, I want a cup of coffee!
Extra cream, please.

–Max

For any large-nostrilled woman:
The name’s Hunter, and my top fantasy? The Flying Pig.
Here’s how it goes: I’m doing you nuts-out from behind, and, just as I’m about to ejack all-the-fuck-over you, I slowly move my index and middle finger over the top of your forehead—quickly hook your nostrils, and pull back, causing you to squeal and to flap your arms and flail, just like a sexy flying little-piggie. Oink, oink.

What say you, ladies?
--Hunter Price (no phone; I mostly hang out in the alleyway between Washington and Wells or thereabouts)

You: an 85-year old, well-dressed man that came into the Nashville Hooters on Fifth St.
Me: your cocktail waitress, Caramel.
I couldn’t help but notice you had a respirator and thought I should tell you that I just love to play Nurse.
Bottom line, I’ll fucking ride you dusk till dawn for a piece of the pie. Dig?
Give me a call at the Holiday Inn, Room 57.
Bring a Notary.