My Textmate

By Sean Patrick

On Valentines Day, I got a text at 7:54 pm from an unknown number that read as follows:

‘Uhm do u mind going to the lab with me tomorrow?’

It’s the most romantic Valentine’s Day text I’ve ever gotten. Unfortunately I knew the truth. Some lucky person was sent an invitation to have a good time in in either a chemistry, film, or meth lab, and this lucky person wasn’t me. Whoever sent this text had the wrong number. Being a mature adult, I decided to ignore it, figuring that the sender would soon realize the error.

The next night, around the same time, I got another text from the same number. This time, the text had a riveting question:

‘You know what?’

I was curious. I replied:

‘What?’

Two minutes later, I got my answer.

‘You’re a little hoe bag.’

It seemed so odd. This person, whom I’d never met, seemed to know everything about me. I am a little hoe bag. I replied.

‘Oh, I know, right!?!’

Five minutes later she wrote back.

‘Lol jk you little SPUD (;’

And there it started. My first friendship entirely communicated through text message. I had a textmate. And I was her little spud (I was now figuring, after referring to me as a hoe bag and a SPUD, that my textmate was female).

I wasn’t sure when I would hear from my textmate again. It didn’t take long.

‘Tmdrtmdrtmdr! I have a lot of venting to do!‘ – 2/16/12, 6:49 am.

6:49….. A.M. And since this was from an 847 area code I assumed that this person was texting from a suburb of Chicago, meaning that she sent this at 5:49 A.M. Who the hell has the energy to vent at 5:49 A.M.? I was way too tired to gain the strength to text from my 1974 Motorola Razor Phone, so I ignored it and went back to sleep, thinking that I should probably end this relationship as I dozed off.

‘So you know how I told you about Jill’s little crush Jon who messaged me?’ – 2/16/12 6:36 pm.

I got this about a half-hour after getting home from work, nearly 12 hours after she woke me up looking to do some pre-dawn venting. I told the gf what she texted me, and she said, ‘ok, I think it’s time to tell her she has the wrong number.’ She was right. This was enough. So I texted her back.

‘What about it?’

I’m sorry, but before I ended this relationship, I really wanted to know what happened with Jill’s crush Jon. It sounded like it was going to be juicy!

‘She messaged him trying to have a convo and he asked why she messaged him. lol.’

SCANDALOUS! Gossip to the max!

But seriously, that was the most disappointing response ever. I was hoping for, ‘he brought a gun to school,’ ‘he cut off his weenie in shop class,’ or ‘he got Mrs. Levins pregnant!’ Instead, I got word that Jon doesn’t know who Jill is. This gossip sucked, and I let her know it.

‘No way!! Really? ROTFLMAO!!’ (In teen talk, that translates to, ‘No way! Really? That is so funny that I am literally rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off!’)

I couldn’t stop. I’m not sure why. I don’t have unlimited texting, and at the rate that this teenage girl (I was now assuming that this girl was a teenager) was sending me messages, I would soon need to get a second job to cover my phone bill. She immediately got back to me.

‘Silly bo billy.’

Yeah, definitely a teenage girl.

The next day was Friday, and I was in great spirits because we were heading into a three day weekend, meaning an extra night of my weekend where I could drink heavily and regret that the fact that I didn’t go outside the entire day. While still at work, about 15 minutes before leaving for the weekend, I got a frantic message from my textmate.

‘Oh dear god help me, I might of left your note in Bridget Maloney’s locker!’

Previous texts were casual, but now she was having a crisis. It was time to be an adult and help her through this.

‘Baloney Maloney??? It guess it’s ok.’

I was a little nervous about this one. Not because I was now officially being creepy, but because whomever I was pretending to be had now officially referred to Bridget Maloney as Baloney Maloney. I might have just unintentionally gotten a middle school girls’ ass kicked, especially if Bridget Maloney was large and in deserving of the nickname Baloney. While thinking this, I got a response.

‘It’s not okay!’

It was time for this to end…

‘Why not?’

… after I figured out why it wasn’t okay.

‘Oh idk, mentioned jspat, jimmy, johnny, phil, cole, nbd.’ (In teen talk, I think that means ‘Oh I don’t know, I only mentioned J-Spat, Jimmy and Johnny, Phil, Cole! Everyone! No big deal’ (I’m not sure if that no big deal was sarcasm or not. Unfortunately it’s tough to portray sarcasm in text)).

At this point I was done entertaining this girl. If I was getting some juicy gossip I’d be willing to go on, but she had nothing. Her teenage life was more depressing than my adult life. I needed to get out of this. But how? I didn’t want to let her know that she had been texting a 30-year-old man for the last few days. It might embarass her, and also might lead to my arrest. After giving it some thought I texted her back.

‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. I thought I’ve been texting my niece this whole time.’

Believable? I don’t know, I don’t have a niece. But if I did, I would refer to all of her friends with the last name of Maloney as Baloney Maloney, so maybe it wasn’t bad. She got back to me about an hour later.

‘Oh, haha! It’s ok, sorry about the mix up!’

And that’s how the greatest friendship I ever had ended.

Bachelor Pad!

By Sean Patrick

One night a week my gal pal has evening classes, meaning that for a few hours after I get home from work I am able to do whatever manly thing I want. Finally, some time alone to let the man inside me (eww) come out in full force. So what do I do on these nights? Do I buy a steak, take my shirt off, crank up the pornography and practice my farting? No. In fact, so far my nights have been anything but those things.

Since classes just started, this is my second Bachelor Pad night of the year. Here is a recap of my first two.

BACHELOR PAD NIGHT #1

Last week my bachelor pad night started strong. I picked up some dinner and when I got home I was planning on watching Moneyball. Ultimate dude stuff… just as long as the fact that my dinner was generic frosted flakes is overlooked.

I got home and start preparing my mandinner when, out of nowhere, the largest cockroach that’s ever lived on this planet darts across the counter and into my sink. I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘You’re in New York now. This must be common place.’ It’s not. This was my fist cockroach, and he was the size of my fourth-grade music teacher. So, as any mature adult in this situation would do, I starting screaming profanities, all the while trying to trap this gigantic bastard under a plastic cup as he scattered quickly around the sink. While I ended up breaking the cup, I did not end up breaking the cockroach. He swiftly climbed out of the sink (which in itself is repulsive) and jumped to the floor. There he took immediate shelter under the small ledge between our floor and counter.

He stood still at that point. So did I. It was your classic Brooklyn standoff. Now what? I knew I had to kill it, and to avoid the years of therapy that I would need if I got a napkin and felt this midget crunch in my hands, I decided to put a shoe on and stomp the hell out of it. Unfortunately his positioning under my ledge made it impossible to tell where he was when I approached him, and after stomping hard on the area where he originally was, I came to find out that he escaped. Where he went, I’m not sure. But he was gone.

I went to the living room to go over my options.

Option 1: I could just leave the apartment and come back the day that we moved out, which at the earliest would be the summer of 2013. But I could find stuff to do until then. It’s the city that never sleeps.

Option 2: I could call the police and they could take care of it. NYPD doesn’t have that much to do, especially at night.

Option 3: I could call the landlord to come over and kill it. He’s a tough bald Russian guy, so it wouldn’t be embarrassing at all.

Pretty soon it became clear that my best play was to get some roach spray and douche my apartment in it. So that’s what I did. I got some Raid, sprayed the kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, my body, my throat, all of the girlfriends jewelry and perfumes, and every piece of fruit we had (I’m kidding… we don’t have fruit). I bugproofed the apartment, and all it took was a $10 bottle of raid and 17 years off of my life expectancy after breathing in an abundance of toxic roach spray.

After that was done, I sat in the livingroom scared to death of the kitchen, and refused to get up and walk around in fear that the huge bastard would be around the corner looking to wrestle. BACHELOR PAD!

BACHELOR PAD NIGHT #2

Fast forward to this week and here I am. It’s Tuesday night. Bachelor pad night. I’m a 30 year-old man trying to relax after a hard days work, and I can do whatever I want. That being said, what was I doing before I starting blogging about how depressing my Bachelor Pad evenings are? What was I doing the one night where I am allowed to do whatever I want to in my apartment? Laying on my couch, wearing my pajamas at 7 pm (6 pm cst), eating Valentine’s Day heart candy, which is my desert after a hearty dinner of Capt’n Crunch Berries, and watching the second season of Lifetime’s breakout reality show Dance Moms.

not a joke

BACHELOR PAD!

Valentine’s Day Gifts Men Should Avoid

By Sean Patrick

As the second most romantic holiday of the year approaches (the first being flag day), men around the country are struggling to come up with the perfect Valentine’s Day gift. Although I can’t help you with what to get that special someone, I can definitely tell you what not to get that special someone. 

Any sort of 9/11 memorabilia. Even though “she’ll never forget,” Valentine’s day is not the day to remember.

Glamour shots. Not only does this imply that you think she needs a professional makeover, but I don’t think glamour shots has updated their wardrobe since the mid eighties. So all you’re going to get out of this is a pissed off girlfriend and a picture of her in an American flag jean jacket.

Anything found at Spencer gifts. Even their most romantic item, a black light poster of the land of Mordor, is not in the least bit romantic… unless you’re dating a hobbit… in which case you should stop referring to your short girlfriend as a hobbit. She’s probably starting to get really pissed about it.  

An all expense paid trip to Reno. You’re basically begging her to get crabs. 

The Direct TV exclusive NFL Sunday Ticket package. She’s just getting over the fact that, because Justin Fargas was on your fantasy team, you made her watch the entire Monday Night Football game between the Raiders and the Dolphins. Don’t derive that painful memory on this special holiday.

Granny panties. As much as it made you and your friends laugh when you bought them at TJ Maxx, she won’t find the humor in it. 

Commemorative presidential plates. Even though she voted for Obama, she will have no idea what she is supposed to do with a plate with his face on it. (rs)

Anything that involves the word “fart.” This includes fart machines, fart powder, and fart candy. This reiterates my point that you shouldn’t buy her anything from Spencer Gifts.

An act of love that involves causing yourself physical harm. In the end, it’s not worth it. Ask Van Gogh. Loudly.

A signed legal document stating that you promise to never cheat on her again, with the word again written in tiny font. 

Anything she needs. Even though she has talked for months about needing a phillips head screwdriver or a new toilet brush, Valentine’s Day is not the time to give them to her. Those are gifts you should get her on a random Tuesday in June.

A novelty t-shirt. Again, as funny as you and your buddies thought the “Honk if You’re Horny” t-shirt was, she won’t. In fact, as a rule of thumb, don’t take any of your single friends Valentine’s Day shopping with you. They just want to destroy your relationship so you can play more Halo.