Best Best Missed Connection EVERRRRRRRR

Where to begin....This is seriously the greatest craigslist missed connection I've ever read. EVER. And I've read a lot. I even read one once that went like this: "I farted and you said it smelled like the time you pooped in your pants while shopping. I told you I like a women who doesn't waste time going to the bathroom." Yeah that's for real. I'm pretty sure this tops that, though...Each sentence somehow is better than the last; just when you think the author has written the greatest thing ever, he outdoes himself. Now I know why I always get skeeved out when I go to this Walmart...

Walmart Shopper drinking Gin - m4w - 45 (Elsmere)

I saw you at the Elsmere Walmart. You were drinkin Gin, that was hidden in your bra. I axed for some, and you pulled your electric cart in the corner near the 99cent DVD's. You told me that your husband beat you and we laughed cuz he was in the Fishing section. He had an Oxygen tank, and hole in his neck to breathe. We hid in the bathroom, and your two kids helped me get you out of your chair so we could get frisky while they bloged the door . I still have the perfume and nail polish that you asked me to hide in my camafauge pants, and you still have my hart. I just can't get that Tattoo of yours off my mind, and I need to see it again. You wanted to go to NASCAR but it was rainin. I went instead of followin u home If you are still serious about leaving the old airbag, I'm right here waiting for you.

• Location: Elsmere
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 2396789972

Ok, so WOW, where to begin...Here is how I imagine this missed connection going down...First of all let's make sure we're all on the same page: this event took place at Walmart. Could it have taken place at Target or Macy's? Probably not. The players in this scenario are the man who wrote this missed connection, let's call him Prescott (I think you'll agree he sounds like one), and a special lady, I think her name is Lady Bird or something like that. So Prescott was just wandering around the $.99 DVD section looking for a restored, unaired Looney Tunes double episode DVD, when all of the sudden this major hottie on an electric scooter buzzed by him and smashed on the breaks because a $.99 Mary Tyler Moore DVD caught her eye. Lady Bird picked it up, looked at the picture of a young, independent Mary Tyler Moore, thought it reflected her, and threw the DVD in her basket. Excited about her new DVD, Lady Bird pulled the fifth of gin she had slyly hid in her bra (well except for the odd, bottle shaped, extra large boob it created) and went to drive off to find some nicotine patches. Prescott, however, stopped her. He had noticed her right away because he thought she was going to grab some of the the $.99 DVDs he wanted. Once he saw her reach for Mary Tyler Moore and swig some gin straight out of the bottle from her boob, he knew they were meant to be. He wanted to toast to his newfound love, so he axed to share her gin. She agreed, but suggested they move further in the corner of the $.99 DVD section.

They started talking and realized they had so much in common, and laughed and laughed at the stories of her husband beating her. "That darn kook with the hole in his throat and the oxygen tank." she said, "He just loves to fish. It's his favorite hobby...Well aside from beating me up. HAHAHAHA. Isn't that a riot?!?!?" Prescott was laughing so hard at this point, he couldn't breath, and wished he had his own oxygen tank. "Why don't we go get frisky in the bathroom," he suggested. Lady Bird agreed that it was a great idea; she heard the bathrooms were extra clean at the Elsmere Walmart. She yelled for her kids to come help her go to the bathroom. Prescott and her children lifted her out of the electric scooter and helped her walk into the bathroom. "Blog this door!" she said "So no one comes in here while I'm getting frisky with this man."

They came out of the bathroom to find a long line of people waiting outside of the bloged door. They didn't care though, they were in love. They strolled the aisles together laughing and talking about domestic violence and stealing. Prescott sat on Lady Bird's lap as they drove through the aisles at .5 miles per hour. Lady Brid asked Prescott to put a Revlon nail polish and a knock-off Obsession perfume in the pocket of his camouflage pants. She told him his camo pants would probably hide her stolen goods better than her tight bra and t-shirt, also the gin bottle was taking up enough space already. He agreed and asked for another sip of warm chest gin.

They decided to look at the $.99 CDs to see if there were any good new releases. Nothing good though, only classical crap and kidz bop. They conversed about NASCAR; she said she wanted to go, but didn't want to get wet in the rain. Her personal appearance was messed up enough by getting "frisky" in the Walmart bathroom--she still had toilet paper blowing in the wind behind her scooter. Prescott told her he didn't want to miss the beginning of the race, so he left--even though he knew she was his true love. Prescott said goodbye to Lady Bird. They laughed once more about her husband's throat hole and anger management issues. He thanked her kids for "bloging" the bathroom door. He decided not to follow her home because he feared he wouldn't make it to the race in time to place his bet on Dale Jr.

Days later, Prescott just couldn't stop thinking of Lady Bird. "What a gal," he thought. "She raised two courteous and helpful kids, she loves a classy cocktail, and loves a quality $.99 bargain DVD. I just need to see her and that amazing tattoo again." And even though he doesn't know her name and she doesn't know his, he is "right here" on Craigstlist waiting for her, whenever she's ready to leave the "old airbag."

I really hope God brings these two together again. Clearly they are meant to be, and it's just not fair for the universe to keep them apart...

veet street shark meat

It's been a while since I've hit up the missed connections on craigslist; they are, by far, my favorite part of the internet. Today I found a great gem:

Blue Eyed Tattooed Man with Mullet - w4m - 25 (Wilmington)

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Date: 2011-04-20, 9:40PM EDT

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I met you last year at the beach a couple weeks after you got attacked by a shark. Your friends call you Veet Street Shark Meat, I think? Wish I knew your real name bc I can't stop thinking about you. Your mullet, tats, and eyes are so sexy. Thank God the shark didn't eat any of those things. Would love to talk sometime.
IF ANYONE KNOWS A VEET STREET SHARK MEAT, PLEASE OH PLEASE CONTACT ME! THANKS!

• Location: Wilmington
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

When I first read this I was like "wow, did I have a dementia spell and forget that I posted this as a joke?" I'm pretty sure, though, that I did not post this. I was initially drawn to click on this wondrous post from the title "Blue Eyed Tattooed Man with Mullet." It's like someone knew exactly how to pique my interest. I almost fainted when I read the rest of this post. A SHARK ATTACK SURVIVOR, AN AMAZING NICKNAME, TATS, A MULLET, AND BLUE EYES!?!?!? CAN THIS MAN BE REAL? Veet Street Shark Meat just sounds too good to be true, and my mom always told me "if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." I don't know, though, there is something about this that makes me want to believe Veet Street Shark Meat is real. He sounds so great, he has to be true; you can't make something that good up.

I really hope these two get back in touch. Based on Veet's physical description, I imagine their relationship would play out like a grocery store romance novel. She would gaze into his amazing blue eyes while running her hands through his flowing mullet all night. He would serenade her with stories of of his shark attack, and tell her how he punched it right in the head and rode his boogie board to shore to get away. She would tell him how glad she was that the shark didn't eat his hair, his face, or his tattoos. He would agree because he also thinks he looks amazing. The cover would look something like this.

Susan Johnson, if you are reading this blog, I think you've just got your next idea for a romance novel--you could use that same image, just place the lovers on a beach and re-title the book Veet Street Shark Meat: One Man, One Mullet, One Shark, and One Passionate Night.

memoirs: first day of kindergarten

I've decided to start a reoccurring "memoirs" section in my blog. I've also decided to stop being a dirtbag and try to update this brilliant literary feat more often. That being said, let me start my memoirs with a story about my earliest school memory. Since I've been in school for more than 20 years, I pretty much know the deal now (god, that sounds horrific, but even though I'm not becoming "the right kind of doctor," (apparently according to Italian grandmas studying anything in the humanities is useless "shit") one day I'll have COMMA PhD after my name). On my first day of kindergarten, I'm pretty sure I felt as prepared then as I would visiting a kindergarten classroom today. Oh I was ready, I had been prepping for that day all my life. I blew through nursery school like it was for babies. Why wouldn't I rock kindergarten my first day?

All morning I listened in disgust as the other kids asked to "go potty." I was horrified that anyone there was immature enough to say "potty." Clearly, I was much more cultured than the other kids because I used the term "bathroom." Yeah, so what if it was a bigger word with more syllables--my vocabulary could totally handle that. I can't remember exactly what I thought, but it probably went something like this: "O...M...G...I cannot even believe these little shitheads use the word potty. How old are they? Do they even know how stupid they sound? Geeze, at lunch we'll probably have to talk about crayons or TV because no one here has probably ever heard ofVersace." Yeah, I think that sounds right...

So when I actually had to use the bathroom for the first time that day, I just got up and went. I saw no reason to interrupt class to ask permission to use the bathroom; I was obviously more mature than everyone else for being able to decide this on my own. I got into the bathroom and my early-onset germaphobia kicked in. I decided it would be very dangerous to use the toilet without lining it with toilet paper. For some reason, though, I didn't see the toilet paper, so I opted for paper towels. After a few minutes I had crafted a cushy paper layer perfect for both comfort and germ protection. I pulled down my pants and got ready to sit down when, all of the sudden, my teacher busted in (I guess the door locks are pointless in kindergarten). She started yelling "I didn't know where you went, and I got worried! You need to ask before you use the potty! And what are you doing with all these paper towels? You are going to clog the toilet if you flush those!!"

My great reaction? I started to cry. Apparently my super-maturity didn't prepare me for getting yelled at bare-assed with my pants at my ankles, all because I didn't want to say the word "potty" and was afraid of germy toilet seats. And that's what I remember from my very first day of school. Thank god I actually don't have to ask to go to the bathroom anymore, that I've learned the art of hovering, and that I reserve crying for more important issues (like every-other-week "why am I in graduate school?" crises)...

my new life calling

A couple of weeks ago, I came up with the greatest idea I have ever had: I've decided to become a professional tambourine player, you know, in my free time. I'm pretty sure that by specializing only in tambourine (and awesome dance moves) I will become the greatest band accompaniment ever...EVER.

The first week of my new dream consisted of dancing around and playing "air tambourine" on a daily basis. I'm not trying to brag or anything, but I'm probably the best air tambourine player ever. I'm thinking of posting my skills on youtube, but I don't want to make anyone feel bad since they will never be as good as me. That's just bad karma.

This week, I came one step closer to my dream: I BOUGHT A TAMBOURINE. Yeah that's right, I went to a music store, tested a few tambourines, and bought an awesome one. I've never bought anything at a music store before, so I asked the guy working behind the counter for his advice on tambourines. I take it not many people ask about tambourines (once I become a musical sensation and every band ever wants me to play with them, I'm sure like thousands of people will be asking for tambourines, though). I'm not gonna lie, the conversation was pretty awkward; I was trying to fake him out and pretend I'm a musical prodigy, he was trying to hide the fact that he could tell that I had no idea what I was talking about. After our discussion on tone--yeah that's right I told him one tambourine sounded more flat than the other. I finally chose the more popular half-moon version because as I told the music store guy it had "a better sound." Twenty dollars later, I walked out of that store with a new tambourine, and one step closer to my new life dream.

Now it's time to post my own ad on craigslist: "Professional tambourine player for hire: awesome dance moves included." And if that doesn't work, I'll just start taking my tambourine to live music shows, standing in the front row, with my back to the band, and tambourine-ing my little heart out. Hey world, watch out because the world's greatest professional tambourine player has just emerged.

I'd like another...taco?

We all know I thoroughly enjoy catching up on Craigslist Missed Connections. There is something really special about people looking for love. Something about this post caught my eye--it's just so sentimental, so real. I really hope the poster finds his missed connection, clearly he is looking for something meaningful.

Taco Bell Monday at lunch - m4w - 39 (Wilmington)

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Date: 2010-08-25, 10:12AM EDT

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You were wearing pants that really showed off your ass, your top was showing a nice amount of cleavage, and I think you caught me checking you out a few times! I've found I've been thinking about what it would feel like to wrap my arms around you, reaching behind to grab your ass in both hands or press up close behind you, reaching around to take your breasts in my hands. If you're interested, write back & describe the circumstances at lunch (which T.B., was I alone or not, were you alone or not, where'd you sit, etc)

First of all, I'd like to commend this poster for the correct use of "your" and "you're." For some reason, I really did not expect such polished grammar from this post.

I do have a word of caution, however to the poster. I'm not sure he's really going about finding his missed connection the right way. I mean perhaps he should have suggested just talking first. Let's be honest here, that is clearly the more sensible way to go about establishing a future with this woman. Seriously. You both just ate at Taco Bell for lunch. Do you really want to be pressed up against her ass? I think the answer is no, unless you want to be farted on.

For someone who knows the difference between "your" and "you're"(which apparently is a very difficult thing to learn), you should also know that you probably should sit alone for at least 24 hours after eating Taco Bell, and you most certainly should NOT suggest that someone who also just ate Taco Bell "press" her ass against you. That, my friend, is stuff you don't even have to go to English class to learn.

well i've found a new hero...

All it took was one look at this...woman(?) to know that I found a new hero for my list. Perhaps I should know have known who she was before I saw her photo tonight (am I just too concerned with reading like a thousand books a week?). I still don't know who Michaela Romanini is--well aside from being one of my heroes.

Hey now, stop being so judgey. Just take a good healthy look at this person. Yeah, soak it in. This is a beautiful person and when Cher and Peter Gallagher decided to have a baby, they probably had no idea it would be so striking. Why, you might be asking yourself, is this--let's just call her a woman (at least her name suggests she is)--a hero of mine? Well, I think it's really important for people to care about their public appearance. Michaela has obviously made great attempts to better herself and put on a "good face." Unfortunately, apparently no one ever told her what a "good face" looks like, and the extra heavy eyeliner she wears distorts her reflection in the mirror. Maybe I can send a pigeon to deliver this message to her: orange is not a natural complexion, caterpillars shouldn't be used as false eyebrows, and you should not model your lips after a baked potato. Also, if you look like you eat babies, there is something wrong with your face.

But hey, at least she is trying, and as we all know, it's the thought that counts, right? At least she didn't roll out of bed throw her hair in some rat nest, put on sweats with a "cute" word on the butt, and show up in public expecting to be taken seriously. If only everyone had her ambition, maybe the world would be a prettier place. However if everyone had her sense of style and love for cosmetic surgery, the world would probably have a lot more nip slips and nightmares...

some smart people are also cool.

Following a day of intense professionalism at an academic conference I have come up with ways to judge the level of coolness of people in the scholarly community. Sidenote: Yes, I actually whip out the big guns when it comes to being professional. In fact, I'm so awesomely serious it actually shocks people, and they say things to me like "wow, you were so professional up there" to which I reply "yeah thank god I let all my farts out before I got on stage." Just kidding. I don't say that to people, I wouldn't want to give away my secret.

Ok so being in a room full of studious academics is sometimes tough--while I am one myself, it is sometimes hard to talk to these types of people. Many are so interested in their own damn research that they rarely talk about other things, sometimes I just want to scream "Look buddy, you are the only one who gets a hard on about the crap you study, so just shut up already and talk about baseball or something." These people are not cool.

The other thing that happens is what I like to call a "research love connection" in which two or more scholars become obsessed with each other and their shared research interests. Basically they end up alone in the corner of a room full of people, seemingly unaware of all the others around them, as they passionately discuss their work--I call this a "verbal make-out session." Just like real make-out sessions, the more they drink, the sloppier and touchier they become. If they have a real connection, they will move to the couch, exchange business cards, and desperately hope the other calls them soon. These people are not cool.

So how do you know who is actually cool? This month's Elle magazine suggests in order to be "classy," a lady "only makes inappropriate jokes in appropriate company, and if she's not sure if she's in appropriate company, she waits." Let's face it, the only people who actually describe themselves as classy are actually incredibly trashy--if you don't believe me, just watch an episode of Jerseylicious. Who wants to be "classy" anyways? It's basically just a synonym for "girl douche." I'd rather be smart and funny any day of the week. That being said, I have a slightly different view on inappropriate jokes: use them as testers to find out who is cool and funny.

It's always easy to tell who will not find those jokes funny: the people mentioned above, people with circle glasses and bowties (separately they are fine, but combined they signal a total douche who has a lame sense of humor), people who have throaty voices and don't move their teeth when they talk, people who are orange, and people who have what I like to call "baby fetus muscles" (you know, big bulging muscles that look like there are little babies growing inside them). Don't even waste tester jokes on these people. Tester jokes are for people who could go either way. Good tester jokes must be hysterical and slightly inappropriate. Casually let one out, and monitor the crowd's reaction. The people who don't laugh are not cool. The people who smile are also not cool. The people who laugh are cool. Ignore everyone else and only talk to them.