Dear guy about to cheat on his wife at the bar last night,
I couldn’t help but notice your impending adultery because my family was running obscenely behind schedule and left me and my Gibson sitting alone, looking like I was stood up by someone that found a better date. I was forced to observe and judge those around me and you and your mistress were closest in proximity. Most sleezeball, poorly dressed cheaters have the sense to remove their (tacky, ornate) wedding ring prior to wooing. As a woman in her late, late 20’s, my eyes immediately fly to the left hands of all men. I can’t help it. Society makes me. And your glowing, diamond encrusted monstrosity is hard to miss, even through the haze of your cheap cologne.
Your date didn’t seem to mind. Maybe her huge kerchief blocked the view of anything beneath her chin. I can’t be sure. But she was clearly not your wife and clearly not a friend/co-working/daughter. I can only hope that my disapproving glares made you feel like the douchebag that you are, and that your wife, if she has any brains, will walk away with more than half of everything you ever owned.
All your turtleneck/blazer combo was missing was a gold medallion and cowboy boots. And your delicate date, who looked like a small gust of wind might break a rib, was working body language which clearly said, ‘Oh god. What the hell am I doing?’
I am certain your evening ended with an awkward goodbye, a thwarted ass-grab and a last minute head turn so as to avoid your creepy old man mouth.
Everyone thinks you’re an asshole.