LOVE RIDICULOUS LOVE
The Man Who’s Stalking Me Claims to Love Me
Just fess up, Smillew Rahcuef, and we can make it official
Smillew Rahcuef recently and publicly admitted his brain-jiggling devotion to me. Yes, ME. Sorry Kristine Laco, Adam Robinson, Philip Ogley, and Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier). He’s hoping for reciprocation and “a private note”. This is as private as it gets, Loverboy.
Dearest Stalker,
You act like it’s a big ole secret. Like I have no idea that it’s your fuzzy black peach of a noggin peering at me over the windowsill.
Undressing me with your eyes while I whip up homemade granola for the kid’s breakfast parfait. Drooling as I stumble out the door for my quick-63-km-before-work jog. Tickling your pickle as you watch me naked on the throne farting my way through my morning constitutional alphabet.
I know it’s YOU, Smillew Rahcuef!
Just because my IQ is lower than your sperm count doesn’t mean I’m a dum dum.
You didn’t need to leave all those clues.
Like when you spelled my name across my front lawn with Roman candles. You had to know I would see your credit card delicately placed amongst the casing shells. Thank you, by the way. I’m sure you’ve noticed the adoption charges for two blind cockatoos.
I’m giggling as I recall the time you romantically smeared feces into a heart shape on my car’s windshield. I knew it was you — even before I found your labelled Fruit of the Looms under the back tire.
You’ve put a lot of work into US but I can’t say I love you. My heart belongs to another.
I’m still curious though about Grandma Smillew’s invitation to High Tea. Listen to the transcript and ask yourself, Who could resist?
“Listen,” your hot nana whispered over the phone, as though everything in the safe at JP Morgan was about to be ours. “I want you to come over for tea. I just got some new stuff.”
“What type, Grams?” She allows me to call her that. Another reason I know you’re in love with me.
“It’s called Schlong tea.”
“You mean Oolong?” I corrected her. “That fat-burning one?”
“No, no, dear. SCHLONG.” I heard her knitting needles clack. I know she’s been working on something she found on Pinterest — a new pattern for nipple covers in your favourite shade, Embalmed Blush.
“That Cutiepants grandson of mine brought it over. He said I should serve it to you. But only you. Schlong tea.”
I can’t avoid your Grandma. Or you. Or Schlong tea. Does it have an aftertaste, Smillew? Or is it as sweet as your hard-working adoration?
It’s time to fess up, Smillew. It’s time to stop pretending this is some big ole secret.
Sincerely,
Stalkee Jen
Wanna read more about love, wonky love? Read Aurelia Bliss’ piece.