Two Mailbag columns in one week? Yeah, two in one week. You’re welcome, you unappreciative dickheads. This edition is a little more topical than the last couple have been. For starters, an actual human sent it to me, not some giant, lunatic bird with an attitude problem. The emailer addresses an issue involving a couple young side pieces, a fraternal love triangle of sorts. Maybe you have been faced with a similar situation before — one involving the proper protocol to enact while tending to a sick girl with one hand, and being dragged to the bedroom by another.
Here’s the email:
Dorn, I have recently come to a crossroads in my life when it comes to being a gentleman and I was wondering if you approved of my decision.
A couple of my buddies and a couple girls we had met at church camp were chill’n in my friends basement when things went fucking crazy. I had already had 10 platinums and was well on my way to belligerency when one of the girls, a sober 7 with golden blonde hair, stomachs decided to reset its self she was bent over the toilet and I was holding her hair while spitting at another one of the camp girls.
That’s when the the latter of the girls decided it was go time,she hoped on me like a kangaroo in heat and almost lost my balance which would have resulted in the single being that we had no created on top of the girl that was blowing chunks. Then, the girl whispered into my ear lets go, and tried pulling me away from the toilet – that’s the moment I’m talking about- and taking me into the back room. I slithered out of her death grip only by gods grave that the beer I had been holding had made my hand wet.
Did I make the right move tho dorn? Should I have gone with her and laid pipe or did I make the right call by staying with a vulnerable lady?
Let’s get this out of the way like I usually have to do at this point in the Mailbag. You guys aren’t in any danger of taking home any Pulitzers any time soon. Just brutal grammar and composition. My little three-year-old nephew can write better than this guy, and we already suspect he’s severely dyslexic. Cocky little fucker, too. Third paragraph, first sentence — anyone feel like telling me what the fuck is going on there? I mean, I get that the second chick put some aggressive sexual moves on him, but then what happened? Something happened on top of that poor girl, but what was it? We may never know.
My little three-year-old nephew can write better than this guy, and we already suspect he’s severely dyslexic.
Okay, now, you said she was a sober seven with blonde hair. That’s basically an inebriated 11. It doesn’t get better than a sober seven while you’re wearing whiskey goggles. I might even argue that’s as good as it gets in a drunken state. Her attractiveness ascends through the roof, but deep down in your consciousness, you still know that when you see her in the morning, sober, she won’t look as good. Back to a seven. Back to Earth. This makes her attainable in your mind. Many times, eights and above are unapproachable when you’re hammered drunk. Why? Your dormant attitude problem is enabled somewhere around beer number 10, or whiskey drink number four. It’s alcohol-asshole syndrome. The standard sober chat with a hard nine goes from casual and flirtatious to “What, you think you’re better ‘n me?” when you’re drunk. This isn’t always true, of course, but it’s commonplace among this demographic. The worst part of it is, that nine is readily available, and as your naysaying asshole meter elevates into the red, her inhibitions inversely plummet, you know, because of the alcohol. It sucks.
Did you make the right call? Hard to say. You didn’t mention how attractive the ready and willing chick was. Because of this glaring omission, I’m going put her at about a five — very average. If she was ugly enough, you’d have mentioned it in your email, and she’s definitely not as hot as the blonde, or you would have shared that information, as well. You also wouldn’t have emailed me about this if she was a seven or higher, because you would have “laid the pipe” to her, as you said. That about right? Of course, it is.
You also didn’t say what your chances with Vomit Face were. Or what they will be the next time you two clank glasses together. This is vital information. I’m leaning toward you making the wrong call in this instance. Here’s why: the blonde wasn’t going to give you any action. She probably never will. She may even be so repulsed by you that she used the heavy drinking that evening as a crutch to stomach your presence. She might even be aware that you’re borderline illiterate. Have you ever texted with her? Emailed? Written her a love letter? Done deal, if so.
Sorry for the bad news, but you asked for it. I shoot straight.