Foolproof ‘Missed Connections’ Posts, by Jesse Porter
You: early ’30s, driving a blue Civic, failing to notice the light turn green at 4th and Main this morning and consequently being honked at by a black BMW. Me: the guy behind you, driving a really sweet black BMW. Sorry about the tailgating, the yelling, and the repeated flashing of the optional HID xenon headlamps. My trip to work had been super annoying up to that point (I was in a text fight with my ex, and I’d just spilled my beer), but my mood improved the moment I accelerated past you and noticed how gorgeous you are. You’ve got beautiful eyes, beautiful hair, even beautiful fingers—an assumption I’m basing solely on the one that you showed me. I’d love to take you out for a spin in my car (which is way nicer than yours, in case you don’t know anything about cars), and maybe a round of drinks either afterward or during.
This is a message for Laura (or maybe Lauren? I can’t remember), the 40-something account executive who I laid off yesterday. Apologies for the brevity of our conversation—it was a hell of a merger, as you know, and I had a number of other appointments that afternoon. I’ve found myself unable to stop thinking about you, however, and I’d love to continue the conversation you were trying to have with me about your mortgage, or your epileptic kid’s medical expenses, or whatever; it all kind of blends together when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have. Anyway, let’s meet up, now that you’ve got all this free time.
I’m reaching out to the really pretty 20-something girl with the hemp skirt and the dreadlocks at the Occupy rally yesterday afternoon. I was the tall guy with the megaphone at the Tea Party rally across the street. If you’re interested, I’d love to meet you for coffee and explain to you how the principles of reactionary conservatism make sense not just for our nation’s troubled economy, but for your reproductive system as well. (Afterward, maybe we could take you shopping for a pair of closed-toed shoes.)
um k so this is a msg 4 amy or maybe aimee idk i saw u in line at tradr joes tlking to the casheer u said ur an englsh teachr thats hot lol i was bhind you prtending to txt but imho admiring ur a$$ lol tmi jk nEway hit me back lmao wtf tits or gtfo
Not sure if you remember me, but I was the male nurse who directed you toward the vending machines in the hospital yesterday. Despite speaking only briefly, I felt like there was a definite connection between us. I saw you a bit later on with your new baby, but I thought it would’ve been inappropriate to approach you just then—you and your husband seemed fairly preoccupied. Anyway, I hope you’ll see this and give me a shout! (Totally not a problem that you have a kid, by the way. I’m not some clueless, old-fashioned guy who’s closed-minded about that stuff.)
This is a shot in the dark, and I’m not even sure if you noticed me, but I definitely noticed you. I was juror number seven—brown hair, glasses, a great smile (which I didn’t use much, given the gravity of the proceedings). You were seated several rows behind the prosecutor’s table, and you cried when the verdict was read, which makes me think you may have been part of the victim’s family. If that’s the case, my condolences. I don’t mean to seem crass here, but I was the one who made that conviction happen. The other jurors couldn’t get over the fact that the police had obviously tampered with the evidence until I appealed to their sentimental impulses with an argument about allowing a grieving family to have some closure. If that doesn’t merit a first date, what does?
To the red-haired girl whose purse I snatched in McLaughlin Park three years ago tonight: Now that the statute of limitations has expired, I’m so excited to finally be able to reach out to you. I noticed how attractive you were as I ran past, but it wasn’t until I was back home going through your stuff that it became clear to me how much we have in common. It’s really admirable that you’re a blood donor, and we apparently both frequent the same juice bar (hope you don’t mind that I turned in your loyalty card for a free Wheatgrass Whip!). Anyway, I’m crossing my fingers that you’ll see this…but, if not, I’ve got your address, so I’ll just come by and surprise you some time. You’re really cute when you’re surprised.
This is a message to the sniper on the building across from mine yesterday: nice marksmanship, beautiful. I’m in position, I’ve got the Senator in my crosshairs, and then, out of nowhere, my right arm explodes with excruciating pain. As I’m staggering backward, gripping frantically at my lacerated tricep, I see you sprinting away from your position, your blonde hair glistening in the breeze. Thanks for making it a superficial wound—the romantic in me likes to believe that it wasn’t an accident. No idea which shadowy covert organization you’re working for, but I’d love to get together some time and “shoot the shit.” (Little sniper humor, there.)
Jesse Porter is a humor writer living in Los Angeles who tells people he barely even knows that he once wrote for a TV show. He has fewer Twitter followers than you.
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