Dear Woman I Scared in the +15,
It is not your fault you were taught a swift and brutal rape will surely follow once a woman gets within 20 feet of a black man. Nevertheless, I take exception to the way you recoiled when I got too close to you. Let us forget that my attire was more suited to serving hors d’oeuvres at a wedding reception than wrestling middle-aged women to the carpet; I also wore my ID card – complete with my full name, handsome photo and name and address of my place of employment – around my neck. Granted, it can be disconcerting to come upon a man of any colour with the top quarter of his buttocks exposed (I had accidentally put on my underwear backwards this morning) and an open fly (busted running for the train). However, I am concerned you assumed you are of suitable raping stock. Supposing gelatinous booties in grey pantsuits turn me on to such a degree I would mount you in front of a shoeshine kiosk, do you really think my raping standards are so low as to include you? Let us look at the scorecard.
A well-lit +15 corridor at 10:30 am with a no less than a dozen professional white people (and one homeless man midway through a rather loud speech on Ralph Klein and televised City Council meetings) milling about does not a suitable rape den make. In what world would a dozen white people, the same people who will not let a black man take their daughter out to dinner without placing a frenzied phone call to the local precinct, watch a black man set upon a middle-aged white woman in broad daylight?
Nope. No way. And I’ll tell you why:
1) leathery hide of a dedicated, three decade-long smoker
2) blotches about the cheeks and forehead courtesy of the two glasses of wine you take with dinner every night; and
3) the glassy vacant stare of a woman one Ativan away from slipping into a coma
While I appreciate that you have kept your body in halfway decent shape for your age, the pockmarks on your hands whisper promises of an equally tri-coloured body. Most frightening of all, your ass was as lumpy and misshapen as a battered Downlite pillow.
Though boredom, disillusionment and frustration has me indifferent to being on the receiving end of a violent, tortuous murder, my outward efforts for self ruin have been surprisingly subdued. The usual powder keg of self-hatred (alcoholism, laziness, sluttiness) remains un-ignited for the 3rd week in a row. My last serious bender was New Year’s weekend; I am writing regularly (to diminishing returns); and I have never been more virtuous. So what if my assprint is forever embedded into the couch cushion because I have not left its safety in nearly a month? Women find me disgusting? Their loss. Now excuse me while I go cry in the shower.
Ok, here is one area you may have had me pegged. Was it the look of vacant desperation? The pained expression of a man who has gone weeks without even a hint of bare flesh reposed on his bed? I will admit my aura screams “anyone, anywhere, anytime” but I will beg and plead for sex from ex-girlfriends, toss a crumpled tenner at the feet of the overweight native lady who sleeps behind the Macs, before I resort to rape.
FINAL SCORE: 10.5/50 = 21%