Listen up, all you ladies of OS. Our favorite heterosexual wiseass writer –well now wait a minute. He does like “Glee” and “The Good Wife.” But….on the other hand, he did mention something about Victoria’s Secret and a strip club. Okay anyway, here it is.
Cranky Cuss is off the market. Again. And he’s all mine. That’s right. Read it and weep, divas.
It took some finessing (actually it’s pathetic how little it took), but an agreement has been reached between myself and the lovely Mrs. Cuss. In exchange for a paltry sum, she has kindly agreed, or resigned – depending how you look at it- to send me the hottest writer on OS to keep for my very own. It’s like Christmas in June. I feel like I did last month when I opened an envelope from Kroger and found a coupon for a free carton of eggs. Large grade A, even! Yeah buddy, Cranky’s coming to Redneck Town. It’s time to shoo the dogs off the flea-infested sofa out there on the front porch and shave my legs. I got me a new man.
Now I know what you’re all thinking. How did the unknown new girl catch the eye of the much-adored and sought after Mr. Cranky Cuss? Don’t I have a husband? Children? Is polygamy now legal in the South? All legitimate questions, and all worthy of answers. However, not being one to divulge my secrets, I’ll only provide the highlights of what was a delicate, yet sophisticated operation on my part. One that took weeks of careful observation, meticulous note-taking, and diabolical planning. In the end it was pure genius that would have made even Hillary Clinton proud.
After evaluating my competition (and kudos to you all) I had to talk some smack and bring my best game in order to reel in my pasty new stud muffin. So I did what any hot-blooded Italian woman with her eyes on the prize would have done.
I flirted. Shamelessly. Like a giddy schoolgirl. I stayed up late thinking up sarcasm-laced one-liners. Minutes became hours while I fantasized about the two of us exchanging witty banter on opposite ends of the couch, glancing up from our laptops only to one-up each other. I PM’ed the hell out of his OS inbox, not allowing him time to catch his breath between notes. I relentlessly stroked his writer’s ego and left him begging for more. I attached files stuffed with writing innuendos and sexy cyber hair-tosses and giggles.
Twenty four hours and two carpal tunnel wrist supports later, I tasted sweet victory.
I’m not proud of it but I’d do it again in a flat second. See today’s “Cuss Words to Live By” for the sordid exchange of heated prose that brought us together.
Cranky’s accompanying piece – the steamy details of our lovespeak