I didn't mean to lead you on by fucking you.

Hey, Lisa. Yes, I did get your phone messages, and I am so sorry I didn't get back to you right away. I'm glad you agreed to meet me for coffee, though, because we need to talk. See, I was sort of confused by some of the things you said on my voicemail: "Hey, that Kurosawa festival at the Orpheum was extended another week if you want to go." "There's a new Cuban place on Eustace Street. I'm free Thursday evening if you're interested." "Hi, Len, it's Lisa. Call me."

Since we only met last weekend, I didn't really understand all this chummy familiarity. It took me a while to figure it out, but I finally realized that a big misunderstanding had occurred: You think there's something between us. Lisa, you're a really nice, intelligent, attractive girl, and I'm truly sorry to have to say this, but I didn't mean to lead you on last weekend by fucking you.

Please don't feel embarrassed. Some of it, admittedly, is my fault. Looking back on my actions, I can see how there may have been one or two things that made you think I was reciprocating your advances. Like making out with you in that back booth of the bar for 40 minutes. Or how, when we came back to my apartment, I slowly undressed you in my bedroom. Or how I kissed the nape of your neck and shoulders and caressed your bare breasts with one hand as I stimulated your clitoris with the other. Or maybe it was that half-hour of intense cunnilingus before our extremely gratifying intercourse that gave you the wrong idea. I guess I can see how all that foreplay might have been misleading.

Lisa, please don't be offended by what I'm about to ask, but have you been with many men? If you haven't, it's okay—that's nothing to be ashamed of. It's just that, well, a more experienced woman would have quickly deduced from my body language that the fucking wasn't leading to anything. For example, as you were straddling me, I never squeezed your buttocks; I only rested my hands on them. And it's a universally understood notion that when, after climax, a man gets up to go to the bathroom, then goes back to bed and falls asleep with his body turned facing the wall, he's not interested in pursuing anything with the woman.

I sense you're upset and embarrassed, and I'm genuinely sorry. That's totally understandable. You misread the signals I was giving off. If it makes you feel any better, I, too, have misread cues plenty of times. A few months ago, I was sitting on the bus when a pretty girl came aboard. As she walked past, she made extremely brief eye contact, then sat in the seat behind me. Naturally, I thought she was hitting on me. I turned around, smiled, said hello, and began chatting her up. It wasn't long before I started putting the moves on her, but instead of returning my amorous advances, she told me to get lost. So, you see, Lisa, I've been there. The only difference is that in my case, I was definitely being hit on. To this day, I firmly believe that girl was flirting, putting on the coy act. What I misread was the extent to which she was a little tease.

My point is, I know what it's like to be on the other side of that scenario. I just wish someone had set me straight like I'm doing here with you. I had to learn it the hard way.

Okay, I was hoping I wouldn't have to say this, but you've forced me to be more blunt: I don't find you sexually attractive. You're just not my type. You're definitely cute, but I prefer tall, long-torsoed women with freckles on their shoulders and small, pert breasts.

What do you mean, "That describes me perfectly"? Maybe you should find a full-length mirror and take a long, hard, honest look at yourself. Sometimes, our self-image can be severely distorted. I'm not judging you—we're all human and have our frailties. But, Lisa, you're not tall and long-torsoed. Five-feet-nine is not considered tall for a woman. Perhaps in Asia.

Look, I think we're getting into some of your personal issues that don't need to be addressed here. Indulge me on this final point, and I'll let you go. This is no great loss for you. You seem like a lovely girl, and I'm sure you'll find a man very soon. But next time, try to be more aware of what that man is thinking and feeling, and you'll spare yourself a lot of pain. From the angle at which he puts his penis in you to the way he post-coitally strokes your hair, there are many signs a man gives off that will communicate whether he's truly interested in you. The sooner you are able to read them, the happier you'll be.

So let's be friends, okay? Now, how about a hug? No? Come on, don't be like that.

Although, I must admit, your little hostility act is giving me a hard-on. What? Come on, there's no need to get upset. It's strictly a platonic hard-on.

The Onion is the best entertaiment out there

AND... there's a valuable lesson to be learned.

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wtf is this pgw shit?

ahahhaha that was funny but im not stoned anymore

2nd.

fucking shit desk was FUNNY

yep, I read a couple of good ones at a McD's the other day. One was about a man sweeping his apartment for pornography before a date arrives, and the other was sorta similar to this one, but I forget now, 'cuz i was drunk, and had just watched the terrible movie Analyze That. Oh yeah! It was about this guy all confused and upset because some girl had told him to "make love" to her.

I think that that was pretty well written.........I liked the first 2/3 of the article! Good use of verbage without coming off cheesy...........

the title of this thread says it all.

Originally posted by Asickeronius

I think that that was pretty well written.........I liked the first 2/3 of the article! Good use of verbage without coming off cheesy...........

been there, done that..do it again tomorrow......

Originally posted by avils

been there, done that..do it again tomorrow......

:lol::lol::lol::lol:

fucking shit desk

http://www.theonion.com/onion3214/off_my_desk.html

--Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, bruthahs 'n' sistahs. H-Dog here, His Stone Cold Baadness, The Original Gangsta, The Mack Daddy, The Freaky Gangbanga. And I got somethin' to say to all y'all bitches out there: Keep yo' motherfuckin' shit offa my desk, or I'll fuck your sorry ass up wit' a quickness. And I don't want to see y'all comin' around, puttin' your feet on it, neither. Or puttin' your goddamn coffee cups on it and leaving them fucked-up rings all upside the wood and shit.

'Cause I keep my fly shit on my desk. I gots my dope spreadsheets, my hangin' file folders, my delinquent-account file, my paper clips, my Post-It note dispenser, my monthly desk planner, my Midstate Office Supply business cards, my four-color ball-point pen, my motherfuckin' dot-matrix printer address labels, and my stoopid-fresh three-hole punch. Not to mention my computer. I swear, if I see any of y'all within three feet of my computer, I'll put a Lee Van Cleef on your bitch ass. I'll come at you like a mother fuck.

I'm just trying to keep it real, know what I'm sayin'? I wanna stop the violence before it starts. I could say nothin' and wait in the shadows like some motherfuckin' ninja, and when some punk-ass temp worker come along and start readin' my "Attitude Is A Little Thing That Makes A Big Difference" Successories mouse pad, I could jump out and knock the sucka's teeth the fuck out. 'Cause that would be my right. A man's gotta protect what's his, right?

Take what happened just last week. Judy Metzger, this li'l skank-ass ho from Accounts Payable, be runnin' her ass around the office, puttin' cupcakes wit' the goddamn smiley faces and shit on people's desks. I'm like, "Whus this smiley-face shit y'all be puttin' on my desk?" And she's like, "I made cupcakes for everyone in the office last night!"

Now, I don't take shit from nobody, and I sure as hell don't take no shit from some bitch from Accounts Payable, so I picks up my letter opener and do some crazy kung-fu shit on her. "Flag yo' ass outta here, bitch, and keep yo' fuckin' cupcake shit offa my fly desk."

She go runnin' out of the room and go gets her supervisor, Myron Schabe, from across the hall. Like I'm supposed to be scared of that. Myron older than shit and he wear bow ties like he Pee Wee Muthafuckin' Herman or somethin'. So then he come up to my cubicle and say, "Herbert, I think there's been a misunderstanding. It was Judy's turn this week to bring in a treat." I tell him I don't like no bitches from Accounts Payable puttin' no shit on my desk. But this Myron fool keep pushin' it, tellin' me: "It was meant as a nicety, Herbert, nothing else. It's Co-Worker Appreciation Month, and everybody's scheduled to bring in a treat. You yourself are signed up for next Wednesday."

So you know what I tell him? I says, "I ain't gonna be bringing in no motherfuckin' treat, motherfucker. Treats is for old ladies in the nursing home and shit. And ain't nobody gonna be layin' they smiley-face bullshit on my dope fly desk. I gots everything where I want it, and ain't no little ho gonna be fuckin' it all up. So take yo' bitch-ass, bow-tie self and get the fuck out of my cubicle before I cut you, beee-yaatch!"

After that, Myron walk out of there wit' his li'l dick between his legs. Ain't no Accounts Payable supervisor motherfucka gonna tell Herbert Kornfeld what to do. And no one else, for that matter. You put shit on my desk, you just signed your death warrant. I mean it. Heads will get flown.

H-Dog out. And to all my homies in Accountz Reeceevable and the bruthahs kickin' it down in Shipping, keep ya heads up. Peace.

huh