Dear Creepy Gas Station Redneck,
I know that I am voluptious. I know I have sexy curves and valleys. Not to mention my badonkadonk is the inspiration for Sir-Mix-A-Lot.Quite simply put, I am delicious and you are aware of this because you start oogling me the second I stepped out of my pimpin' ride, the Mommy Mobile.Of course you noticed me immediately when I pulled up to the gas pump. That Ford Escort Station Wagon is probably the most yummy vehicle devised with all that junk in the trunk. And when I got out, the gas fumes surrounded me like the aroma from Aphrodite's used socks. My jeans were covered in dirt and grass stains from work that day and I had my man-poncho on. We both know if an orgasm was a person, I'd be it. But that does not mean you're allowed to gaze upon me with squinty eyes and lick your chapped lips like a wolf ready to feast upon a lamb. I am not a lamb. I am a fierce tiger and if I hadn't been on a mission, I would have attacked. You're lucky I was deteremined because when I exited the store, you were still there in your rusty pick up truck. Of course, I ignored you and continued on my way to fill the tank up but did that stop you? No. You started up that old whore and even though she gagged and sputtered, you drove up next to me and try to talk to me. And that is where I draw the line. You may lust for me with your eyes but to actually speak to me? Ha! I am the girl your mama said you could never get. Mainly because I was about forty years from being born. But even so, please stop creepin' on my sexy body. It's highly disturbing and you scared that cute blonde away.
I'm not telling you my name, freak.