Warning: This little Yoga Mat Monkey is about to get ape shit angry.
Dear Penis Poster,
You disgust me. You make a little blue vein appear on my forehead; my hot hispanic blood boil beneath my flesh. No, we cannot be friends on Facebook. We cannot exchange sexual favors, as you suggested, and we will never have a sleazy Internet affair. I will not send you pictures of my anatomy, and seeing yours leaves me siding with Lorena Bobbitt, strangely considering her nonsurgical methods. Now there’s a picture I’d like to see — one with you writhing in pain, stripped of your “manhood.” Perhaps then you would understand my position, and how vulnerable and powerless you make all your victims feel.
Yes, we are victims, and here’s why what you did was so wrong:
We know where to find porn, you perverted fool. I am not so obtuse as to believe it ain’t out there. In fact, the World Wide Web is a virtual festival for frolicing naked folk. Have a hankering for hot housewives? Go online. College girls in plaid skirts and ponytails make you hot? Head to the Web. There’s a homemade freak show for every fetish. We know this. And if you don’t mind the crappy lighting, stained couch, and pile of dirty laundry in the corner, you can have a blast watching these online gems. Now don’t go accusing me of endorsing this stuff. I do not. My point is: there is a place for porn, and it’s NOT Facebook. Or at least it wasn’t. I’m not so sure anymore.
You did wrong when you sent me that stomach-churning shot of your erect penis on a shitty mattress. I logged into Facebook hoping to find fluffy kittens, fake smiles, and animal memes that make my heart go pitty-pat. I was looking for a reprieve from my busy work day, a little break from the monotony of mom tasks and household chores. Finding your repulsive picture in my inbox was like opening a box of chocolates and finding worms. You sick f*ck. I did not, do not, and never will want to see that again. Control your impulses. Take a trip to a 24-hour adult store and get yourself some battery operated goodies, a couple of DVDs, and a magazine to stuff beneath your mattress. Have your party at home, and stop sending invites to unsuspecting women. You have a mother, I assume– maybe even a sister. So let me ask you, Mr. Tommy Salami, how would you feel if they opened their inboxes and saw what you sent me?
P.S. This post was a bit rough, I know. My teen told me to take it down. He said, “Girls get these pics all the time, mom. It’s no big deal.” That statement just confirmed that this needed to be said. So there.