The Broad’s Side of the Penal System

I’m certain that this will shock everyone, but it turns out that I have horrible taste in men. I’m a virtual magnet for dysfunction these days. I’m not sure what quality I possess that makes homeless guys, cart pushers in the Giant Eagle parking lot, and circus performers think they stand a chance with me… but it’s really starting to piss me off. Recently, I had a small glimmer of hope that this streak of tragedy was surely broken. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I met a strapping young buck with more charm and sex appeal than you can shake a stick at. I have no idea what that expression means, by the way. I can’t recall ever once shaking a stick at something and having that breed any level of success. But I digress. My first encounter with this chiseled fantasy man was at the crappiest bar I know, The Lakewood Village. It always smells like a combination of urine and old men in that place. Now that I think about it, it’s quite likely that the geriatrics bellied up to the bar are, in fact pissing. It’s a classy joint. I couldn’t believe someone like him had wandered in there, seemingly on purpose. It didn’t take long for him to approach me. For a brief moment, I thought the bearded lady sitting by the karaoke DJ might beat me out for his affection, but that fear was for naught. We engaged in some conversation that I can only assume was captivating and exchanged phone numbers. Like a perfect gentleman, he called the next day and said he couldn’t wait to see me.

One downfall of my career, which involves detaining and interrogating shoplifters who more often than not have steaks shoved down their pants, is that I tend to think everyone is full of crap. I have acquired a fairly effective bullshit detector, which sometimes alerts me to issues that don’t appear on the surface. Over dinner and drinks one night, I had that same nagging feeling that I get in my gut when someone’s about to steal a TV or pass a bad check. I figured out pretty quickly that my line of questioning was very similar to my crackhead interviews. There were some things that he was clearly hesitant to talk about… like “where are you from” and “what do you do for a living”. You know; the really tough probing questions. He also became borderline belligerent at any mention of keeping a schedule. I dismissed it initially because he was so god-damned pretty. My inner private investigator got the best of me before long and I set the Google machine in to full motion. Within an hour, I had located the reason behind his disturbing startle reflex and disdain for authority of any nature. Prison. Lots and lots of prison. Jesus, you have got to be kidding me! I’ll admit that I considered making his mug shot my wallpaper on my blackberry just on the hotness factor alone. With that being said, the charges were fairly serious and I knew then that I had to cut my losses before my apartment was overrun with drug sniffing dogs and guys with battering rams. I’m by no means proficient in drug terminology and didn’t recognize half of the twenty substances he’d be convicted of trafficking while his reign as a Miami drug kingpin flourished.

I agreed to meet him for dinner, because I believe that everyone deserves the opportunity to explain themselves. He started the evening with some babbling about his ‘unemployment phase’, and I countered by telling him that I was certain they required him to work fairly hard in there and ’10 cents an hour is still something’. He didn’t appreciate my humor or the fact that I had violated his privacy by searching public record. Ironic, huh? He seemed to think that telling me about his celebrity clientele would make it less appalling. Name dropping Paris Hilton doesn’t impress me in any context, but this one takes the cake. Besides, it was probably just some blonde crack whore that once spent the night at a Hilton. Needless to say, my plan to have him as a wedding date for my good friend’s special day was aborted. I couldn’t risk him stealing the wedding cards, attempting to sell crack to the groom’s crazy Uncle Bob at the reception, or constructing a make-shift meth lab out of a crock pot or some other thoughtful, crappy gift. When it’s all said and done, it wouldn’t have worked out anyways. Even if I could have found a way to get past the whole prison ass rape thing, he liked the movie ‘Inception’ and didn’t know a football from one of those ball and chain things they make you wear on your ankle in the big house. Now, those are things I can’t let slide.


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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

October 2010
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