I tell you, I don’t get no respect.
When you’ve been knocked around as often as me, it’s really hard to muster the enthusiasm for getting back into the dating game, but fetishes are fetishes. It’s just my luck to be fatally attracted to Kentuckians. I like them. They sure don’t seem to like me.
Still, my first relationship was quite good for a while. It was me and the black mamba. Then tragedy struck. There was a diagnosis of terminal illness, and a slow wasting away. It was painful to watch.
Right after the funeral, I got fixed up with a transplant from Ohio. Boy, did that one turn out to be a bad match. There are three-toed sloths on Prozac with more get up and go, so I got up and went. I’ve never witnessed such flatulence roaring through ANYTHING.
It seemed like the next one was a perfect fit: Smart, focused and totally on the ball. A genuine dreamboat. However, it ended before it even started, and all because of me: Turns out I’m just not sexy enough. That one hurt. I’m the first to admit I’m no runway model, but I can whistle Beethoven’s Ninth in any key while having my brain washed at Rate Advocate.
You’d think that would count for something.
Undaunted, I kept looking. More recently, there was another pretty good prospect. We actually have mutual connections in other states. I was honest and up front: “You know, I’m not asking for much.”
“That’s good,” came the cavalier reply, “Because you can’t have anything at all.”
Ouch. I’m telling you, these Kentucky wholesalers are a tough crowd. You try to get in bed with one of them, and BOOM. I’m into fireworks, though not necessarily when they start exploding after you’ve been cracked on the noggin with a two-by-four.
Well, wish me luck. There’s another blind date next week. Maybe this one will lead to lasting pleasure. If not, I’m starting to run out of choices.
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