Bemustachiod Confidence

Late last night I met up with a girl who I know, sadly,  from only having played online scrabble with. Not necessarily a date, not necessarily a friendly thing either. I knew the night would either end in a forced game of actual scrabble, or straight up 69ing. It’s just how 21st century kids roll. I digress. After an hour or two of perfectly normal conversation, ranging from Donkey Rabies, to the little red clitoris mouse found mostly in the centre of more antiquated IBM Thinkpad keyboards, we decided to take off. Stepping outside of the bar, we were instantly approached by a taller than myself, thinner than myself, more mustached than myself hipster with a whole ballsack full of nerve. What he did next, was a date-killing first: First, he tapped my friend on the shoulder and apologized for interrupting us. In a friendly way, I told him to “beat-it, buster, before I make a lady outta you, see?” To this, he paid no mind and proceeded to ask my date if, by chance, she had a light for his cigarette. She obliged him. Gratefully, he accepted her Bic lighter and lit his smoke. Upon passing it back to her, in addition to the fire, he passed her a note, turned around, and head west on College St. My guess, he was late for band practice. Here’s what it said:

Hey Beautiful Stranger,

You seem really cool and somewhat Bored by what I think is a date. If you would like to ever grab a coffee, or a drink shoot me off an email. The art of the letter is Dead.
-Tim (Random guy eavesdropping) (sorry btw)
P.S. I mean you seem really, really cool.
Tpops@gmail.com

My next scrabble move, a double word score: tpopsisadeadman.

P.S. I mean he’s not really, really a dead man.

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