He hates me! He really hates me

Dear Dategirl,

First, I think it is only fair to admit that I have never been a frequent reader of your column, so I cannot say that I know much about you in a personal regard. What I do know about you I have learned from what you reveal within your column. The impression that you have left is one I can no longer ignore and must share with all its brutal, unforgiving honesty.

In a recent column, you told your readers about your recent trip to Spain. You first managed to rattle my nerves with your mention of how the people you encountered reacted to your choice of attire. You and I both know that the reason why you chose to bring such a provocative assemblage of clothing with you was to "entice" the invariable number of men you would meet while there. If this was not your intention, then you truly live in a reality that is host to only you—a reality where people do not respond to their natural impulses and see it necessary to repress their sexuality, never expressing their carnal desires in any way that you, and only you, may find to be absent of tact. And then, to further add to insult, you drone on about how you so desperately long to be at the side of dearly beloved while denied of his presence. This is said while you all but openly admit that you are out to engage the opposite sex while on holiday in Spain.

It would not surprise me if you chose to ignore these remarks for they would only serve to shake the very foundation on which you have constructed your offensively inaccurate perception of reality. You may be wondering why I have squandered the time and effort necessary to construct a proper response to your column. The answer is simple: I've decided to no longer sit and let my anger boil to a rage when presented with such grand heights of stupidity and trivial praise. And so the result is to be found here, standing as a monument against the unrelenting mediocrity and bourgeois sentimentalism that you hold so dear. In closing, I wish you a happy Thanksgiving and hope that you are afflicted with weeklong indigestion, followed by terminal bowel cancer, you fat, obese atrocity of a woman.


A Not-So-Avid Fan

Wow. OK, cuckoo—I printed your letter! Consider my foundations shaken and stirred! All this vitriol over a stupid little column about my vacation? Terminal bowel cancer? Please! Honey, lighten up. It's only words, and nobody's making you read them. But I am going to address a few of your concerns, if only because I get a certain perverse pleasure out of humoring sociopaths.

To get a second opinion, I waddled my fat (and obese!) ass over to the phone, punched in seven digits with my chubby little fingers and called one of my travel companions, Rose, to read her the part about my "provocative" holiday wardrobe. Boy, did we have a laugh over that one! The outfit in question is what I cleaned my house in before boarding a cramped billion-hour flight. It's an ancient, loose-fitting, linen, schmatte-type thing. By the time I got to Barcelona, it had a layer of filth and spilled vino tinto covering it, plus I had leggings on underneath! No matter that I looked like crap in a sack, the elderly skanks were all over my stank. And as for being uptight about people expressing their carnal desires? Not many chicks I know get hot under the panties for smelly old geezers hissing obscenities at them. An informal poll reveals it to be a universal turnoff! We're not talking about Antonio Banderas whispering sweet nothings here. These skeeves would've hit on anything that peed through hair! It was just easier for them to tell I was a se�ta because they could see a few inches of leg through their watery, bloodshot eyes. No wonder the native broads wear pants!

But really, what I was wearing is beside the point. Women (and certain men) deserve to be treated with respect, despite whatever fashion atrocities they happen to be committing. I'm not such a dopey American that I don't observe the mores of a land different from my own—I was just a little surprised that such innocuous (and utterly unhot) clothing provoked such a reaction; I thought it was funny. Apparently, you did not. And for that I apologize from the depths of my unrelentingly mediocre, bourgeois, sentimental heart.

*Dategirl will be appearing live on the radio at www.wfmu.org on Tuesday December 12, from 5-6pm.

Turned on, turned off? Write dategirl@seattleweekly.com or Dategirl, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

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