To Whom It May Concern (or anyone considering dating a man who brags about working in a video store):
This is a formal complaint disguised as a cautionary tale. It begins in a soggy Shropshire summer, where I met a man named Ryan—self-proclaimed legend of the VHS aisle, ego inflated like a Guinness pint, and libido apparently drowned in it.
He bought me drinks. He boasted. He brooded. I brought him home. And then the unraveling began.
Upon removing his damp clothes, I was greeted not by the stud he claimed to be, but by a frail figure with bony fingers and a gut full of stout. His “manhood,” if you can call it that, peeked out like a shy garden worm—2.5 inches of ropey disappointment. I feigned menstruation to dodge the act, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see how he’d react.
Cue the waterworks.
Ryan began sobbing about his lack of sexual conquests, his mother, and the cruel world that had denied him pleasure. Eventually, I relented—more out of pity than passion—and allowed him a chance. But alas, whiskey had claimed his last shred of virility. The spud remained limp. The moonlight did it no favors.
We spent two hours in a cramped bed, him crying, me contemplating my life choices. By dawn, I ejected him from my home like a bad rental—no late fees, no sequel.
This complaint is not just about one man’s failure to perform. It’s about false advertising, emotional manipulation, and the tragic consequences of mixing ego with alcohol. Ryan, if you’re reading this: next time, skip the bravado and bring a blanket. You’ll need it for the cold shoulder.
Sincerely,
A woman who expected a blockbuster and got a blooper reel.
