Obnoxious

“Successful” guys can be so—

I’d rather date a bus

boy.  He probably wouldn’t be such a—

Honestly, does anyone really need such a big set of

pecks?

I know you think you’re hot, so not

that my opinion matters, but really I just want to

splatter mud 

on your Abercrombie graphic T, pierce your lip,

give you a really ugly

tattoo—at least it would lend some

character.

No, I really don’t care about your stock

profile, so now, would you mind

wiping

some of the gel out of your hair?

Sometimes, it scares me

that I’d rather date the guy

smoking pot behind the dumpster outside the office, 

than date the guy who actually works

in the office—

I’ve looked at the hospital janitor

pushing a cart of dirty towels down the hallway and said,

“hmmm…” entirely overlooking

the doctor.

As much as I’d love to stare at your expensive tie

across the table,

I’m just so distracted by the cook.

He's back there sweating in the hot kitchen, 

breading chicken,

you know he knows

how to use his hands, how to grip a breast…

perhaps it would be best

if you didn’t order us a second bottle

of the place’s best red, 

let’s just admit this date is dead, so

excuse me while I swoon

to the taxi cab driver’s Spanish music on my way home.

He barely speaks English, and I barely Spanish, but

¿Que te pasa, papi?

The man who pays for a tan

from a bed doesn’t much impress me—I’d rather

a farmer tan rendezvous

‘cause it’s true

I do

think your tractor’s

sexy.

I’d rather a dude

be able to build me a house

than buy me one, would prefer to date

the guy who fixes the car

over the one who drives it, especially if, God forbid, it’s a sports car.

The rockstar in centerstage

will probably bore me to tears, unless of course he introduces me

to the drummer he just fired

for never being on time.

If you’re going to sing your own praises, I can promise you

I won’t be in the audience—instead you’ll find me

in the porta-john, making out

with the long-haired guy who writes

bad poetry.