Dear Sir:

Dear Man Sitting Behind me at the Wild West Show:

That thing you were kneeing for the ENTIRE show was called my back.

Yes, yes, I realize you are tall and needed more room than the bleachers allowed. I get that. I was even willing to accommodate said knee in my back. Really.

But when you started bouncing your knee while it was lodged against my back, well, my friend, that’s just rude.

But what’s worse was that when I, the person whom you were kneeing, moved down to avoid you and your interminable bouncing, you then splayed your legs and continued kneeing me in the back. Dude, that’s a big no-no, and not just because it was my back. It’s wrong because a) your junk was not that big–no one’s is, and I doubt yours was anything special; b) your junk was not going to have a meltdown like some blown nuclear reactor if  you kept your legs closed. Trust me. If it were so hot outside that the temperatures melted a man’s junk, I’d think we’d have bigger fish to fry and wouldn’t be at a Wild West Show. But if you’re worried, get a freaking ice pack; c) it’s just rude. The woman in front of you (yes, that would be me) was trying to get away from you and your knee; to splay your legs so that you continue to knee her in the back is ruder than the kid who talked on his cell phone for the first 10 minutes of the show. You know, the kid you kept complaining about. I mean, for the love, by the end of the show, I was perched on the edge of the of my seat, and not from excitement. Yet you continued to move with me.

Maybe my back really is that sexy. I get you probably want a piece of this lusciousness, but I’m taken. Sorry chum.

And, for the love of all you consider holy, why couldn’t you just stop the infernal bouncing? Do you have a tic? Did the sound of the blanks being fired scare you? Did you have a scorpion in your pants that you were trying to shake free? Are you on meth?

Or is it that you’re just a jackass?


Meggan Connors.

P.S. Thanks for kneeing my shoulder while you shoved past me to get out of the bleachers. Because they were obviously on fire and you had to get down RIGHT NOW and couldn’t wait for the family with small children to descend. Oh, riiiiight, you just wanted to be first in line to get your pictures taken with the fake cowboys (they’re actors, my friend, not actual cowboys. You’d have to drive maybe 15 miles to the west–as the crow flies–to find one of those).

P.S.S. I really don’t give a good goddamn that you came all the way from Iowa. No one does.


2 thoughts on “Dear Sir:”

    1. Hahahahaha! I think I’d settle for some sort of fiery rash of the crotch. That would teach him. Or maybe, that was the problem (been spending a little time at the “Ranch,” perhaps?)

      (For the record, our Ranches are perfectly safe, and you’re less likely to get some sort of virulent rash there than you are from one of the biker bars just down the road. Just sayin’)

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