Which makes it slightly more understandable (although no less hilarious) that I recently managed to get me and my siblings emblazoned with the Underwood Potted Meat Devil:

(A friendly [if utterly horrified, and smacking at forearm while shrieking, "GETITOFFME!"] shout-out to Julie for this startling revelation.)

I whipped up the design on a Post-It one night. We all loved it. It was a moment of pure serendipity. Or so I thought.

Turns out I wasn't craving a powerful expression of sisterly love, but rather a fatty, hog-anus-laden snackie.

[Note: I still love my sister-tat, damn it. Potted meat? Not so much.]

---

2. Dear Jackass Date:

May I call you Jack?

Okay, I'm not sure what sort of mental picture of me you'd conjured up before our initial meeting. You'd seen photos of me (ones with minimal undereye circle Photoshopping, no less!). You'd enjoyed our witty e-mail banter. But okay, fine, so the Jul of your hopes and no-doubt humid dreams was NOT the Jul who came strolling up to you last week at Charming Local Taverna. It's not as though I misrepresented myself in any way, but perhaps you have some heretofore-undocumented neurological condition which may've resulted in your confusion. Would you like Oliver Sacks' number? How about a nice KICK in the sack?

There are ways to express disappointment, my lad. "Wow... thanks, Aunt Earlene! You must've worked REALLY HARD on this Carmen Miranda toilet paper roll-holder!" That? That's classy.

You, my erstwhile friend, are not.

I tried. I joked, I smiled, I made The Dreaded Eye Contact. I asked you questions about yourself, I slipped in subtle compliments and affirmations whenever possible. I was ON, enough to make Miss Manners commit a faux pas in her sensible little panties.

But YOU? You radiated disappointment. You conversed, but much like a celebrity being interviewed by a Muppet... with an eye-roll and a smirk, as if to say, "I'll play along, but JESUS, I can't believe I'm discussing the situation in Darfur with a pimped-out duvet cover."

When the waitress presented menus, you blurted, "No, no... just here for drinks." Ouchie.

Seconds after the check appeared, you flung a few bills on the table (I generally like to pay my own way, but if ever there were a time to say, "Fuck progressiveness", that'd be it), stood up and said, "Well, it was really nice to meet you... bye!"

I took a leisurely walk back to the Bachelorette Pad (it was seventy degrees out... I let nothing ruin a seventy-degree night). After giving it some thought, I fired off the following e-mail:

"Uh... wow. So THAT was awkward. Oh, well. Such things happen. Thanks for the drink. - Jul".

A few minutes later, you replied.

"Yep. They do. Best of luck. - Jack".

Back in the day, this would've resulted in a fury of self-loathing on my part, a torrent of bitter tears on my futon.

Fuck that shit.

So I'm not your physical cup of tea. That's okay. Everyone's got their preferences.

Like me. I'd have preferred to enjoy an hour or so of idle chit-chat, part ways amicably, then receive a "Sorry, just didn't feel anything click" e-mail a few days hence.

You apparently preferred to take the "make date feel monstrously uncomfortable and uncomfortably monstrous" route.

A pox on you. Literally and figuratively.

May you one day squirm as badly. May it last a good deal longer.

May you contract one of the itchier STDs.

May it not have even been that good.

May every man who has ever regarded my body as a source of things OTHER than disappointment - lust and pleasure, comfort and joy - band together and kick your fucking ass.

There are plenty of them. There's only one of you.

Your loss, asshole.