The Steves Of The World

Open Letter To The Steves Of The World:

I've known guys like you all my life. Indistinct, unfocused McGuys. You've drifted through life, maybe you have a direction, maybe you don't. Your first marriage was a haze, a bad choice you went and made anyway, suffered through for the false sake of your kids but for the real sake of your pride. You drive some McCar and live in some townhouse that your kids mess up for you every other weekend. You watch a lot of home-improvement shows on television and drink two lite beers on the weekend. You don't root for any particular baseball team and know nothing about soccer. You dance pretty well for a white guy.

And here you are, coming into my place in the world. I'm not like you. I don't do the things you do. I offer women something special, something intense, something distinct.

What could she possibly see in you? And what makes you think you deserve her? All you'll do is bring her back down to the average, take her to chain restaurants out near the mall, buy her gifts from another mall, tell her she looks great in anything when she really wants intelligent advice about what to wear. You'll leave her panting, just short of what little orgasm you can bring her, half the times you have sex. You'll fall asleep immediately afterward and snore and fart. Your running shoes on her kitchen floor will annoy her. You'll forget to put the seat down.

Go back to your McWorld. Leave us alone.