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The Old Hoe Hall of Fame

“Who shows up at a blind date and can’t get it up?”

The line is epic, the tone is rude and the speaker is an old whore. (Disclaimer – The views expressed in this blog are based in fact and completely true, hand to God pinky swear on that one.)

Using the term “Old whore” is not because of her obvious promiscuity.

Its for being crass enough to say this in a Starbucks while sitting at a table with young children 2 tables away.

Here’s what we know so far:

  1. Betty is old enough to be my mother’s aunt.
  2. Betty is single and on the prowl.
  3. Betty is not aging well.

Online dating has done to dating what politics has done to civil discourse. (In other words, gang raped it and shit all over it.

Despite putting you in touch with thousands more people that you might have never met, it is now harder than ever to meet Mr/Mrs Right. (That includes Mr/Mrs Right Now. Patron saint of one night stands and non-lethal STDs.)

And the quality of people has gone thru the floor.

It used to be that if you wanted to meet someone of a certain class or economic strata, you simply went to a bar in a better section of town.

Catfishing seems to be the order of the day. (I would normally tell you to Google it, but its central to the story here.)

Catfishing is basically pretending to be who you aren’t.

The simplest form of Catfishing is posting photos that are not yours. (I once got catfished by a 76 year old woman who posted photos of her daughter. Even good coffee could not save that awkward little meet-n-greet)

People pretend to be wealthier, better looking, better place in life, better you name it.

But it may be a new and weird type of catfish that you present yourself as a player when your sexual function is gone.

The concept of the player who cannot play is new.

Or maybe very old.

Either way it does tone down the spotlight pointed at Betty the hoe.

Someone suggested that I am slut-shaming Betty the hoe.

It’s not shaming because Betty has no idea I did it.

It’s not like anyone she knows is going to read this.

So it’s like a private joke between me and the three people who actually read this shit.

Also, let’s have a slut talk, shall we?

Slut is a word that mean girls and assholes in highschool say to hurt girls that may or may not have slept around.

I know many a girl called slut in highschool who hadn’t done a damned thing.

And the girls calling names were usually the biggest sluts I knew at the time. (I was lucky enough to meet some truly epic sluts after high school.)

But a woman out of school who sleeps around?

She is empowered and knows what she wants.

More power to her. (I was also lucky enough to meet of few of these lovely ladies as well.)

Hoe-shaming would be more accurate.

Except for one thing.

Hoes don’t give a shit.

Not in a confident way, but in more of a ignorant of the fact that it’s an insult to begin with.

I sight as an example:

Betty sipped her coffee and let out a big sigh.

“Maybe I’m just some old hoe.”

Maybe?

Don’t sell yourself short, Betty.

You are a hall of fame Old Hoe.

Mmmmmm, coffee.

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Posted by on December 30, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Who’s the bigger hoe?

Here we are, where we have been so many times before.

Two young 20 somethings in line at Starbucks.

The black dresses are a little wrinkled, makeup has got some sloppy city miles on it, the hair has that look like they were fighting off the bottom on the couch for a half hour before they took that show into the bedroom and taught that hairstyle the meaning of the word respect.

But it is the 6 inch hooker heels at 8 am on a Sunday that says, loud and clear…

Walk of shame.

Time for our favorite sexist gameshow –

“Who’s the bigger hoe?”™

Our first contestant, lets call her Tammy. (A little too much mascara from the night before and she is channeling a Tammy Fay Baker vibe. Google that and click “Images” when you see the pic of her crying with WAY too much mascara, you get it.)

Tammy was a pretty blonde with stylish long blonde hair…. yesterday. Today, she looks like she has “Jersey hair” and may have been initiated into the Hell’s Angels a few hours ago. (You can Google that, but its filthy.)

Tammy has a tattoo of the Chinese character for bread on the back of her neck. (I Googled that one myself.)

And she keeps talking about someone name Naldo. Lets assume that is who her stylist is this morning.

And now its time to meet our other contestant, Babs.

Babs is slightly older, and I am being generous here.

If I had to call it and I was being honest, I would have to say that Tammy probably dated Babs son at some point. When they broke up, Babs decided to finally become one of the popular kids and began hoeing around with her son’s ex.

To call her a peroxide blonde with fake tits is an insult to honest sluts everywhere.

She is trying way too hard and it shows.

So, after having missed out on the swimsuit competition, (And who doesn’t love a love in a bikini?) we move on to the talent portion of the show.

Tammy’s talent appears to be texting and it looks like she is good at it. The high point of her performance was when she looked up at Babs and talked for about a minute and never stopped texting the entire time.

It was impressive.

And now its Babs turn.

Babs talent is her core skill.

Being Slutty.

“What was Naldo’s friend’s name? He’s young enough to be my son!”

No shame, no morals, no brains, no headaches.

We have a runaway winner, it wasn’t even close.

Like a young Brando, she nailed it (And Naldo’s nameless friend) coming thru the door.

Impressive, and sad.

And I hope Naldo’s friend has health care, because the parting gift is an STD.

(I can only imagine the hate mail being generated as we speak. Sad thing is, I kind of agree with it, this is pretty vile, even for me. Unless of course, Babs is your mother, then that hoe is your problem, not mine.)

 

 
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Posted by on February 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore complex.

There is something horrific about a woman in her 70’s that likes to chase men half her age.

For the record, I am not a whore.

But, this is what happened.

I was driving a long distance thing recently.

4-5 hours in a crappy rental car is enough to make anyone a little punchy.

I can drive that far only if I have adequate amounts of caffeine.

Which explains why I am in a Starbucks in a major tourist city.

And that was when I met Betty.

Betty is 70 years old.

I know this because Betty told me.

Would you like to know what else Betty told me in the span of 3.5 minutes in line?

1. Betty’s husband, Herman, sleeps 12 hours a day and has not had sex with her for over 25 years.

2. Betty loves men in their 40’s. (This was said after she asked me my age.)

3. Betty has the cutest condo, just down the street, and I should come see it.

And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.

Let me paint you a picture.

The grand mother of ancient whores is prowling tourist spots and attempting to buy souls for coffee and shitty English pastry.

And the worst part is, she is cheap and has low standards.

You might think I am smacking myself here, I’m really not.

I am a realist.

I am five feet nothing with a gut, a bad attitude and tend to scowl when thinking about things.

This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.

I have had friends over the years that were the type of good-looking that men, women, and couples would hit on them.

I am not that guy, and I came to peace with that long ago.

There is a solid reason I developed this vengeful nasty attitude.

But, this is not about me, this is about Betty.

Betty is a realist too.

Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.

Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.

Someone who would be more than willing to drop whatever they were going to do on a Tuesday at 11am at a tourist stop, and give up the goods back at her retiree, ben gay smelling condo, all for the price of a coffee and pastry.

I should be insulted, but I find the whole thing kind of desperately charming.

Betty is not from a generation that does this.

So my mind immediately goes to what road led Betty here.

She let me quiz her for the better part of 10 minutes before she finally figured out I was not a team player and just turned and walked off, getting back into line behind a mid thirties redneck wearing an Earnhardt tee shirt.

I watched the whole thing unfold as I ate my cranberry-orange scone.

Jethro, for lack of a better name, listened as Betty laid it all out to him. He then got his coffee, took a bite of the cookie she bought him, and headed out the door with a delighted Betty.

You have to wonder how it all turned out.

Did she enjoy herself? Probably. I mean this is evidently her whole thing. God knows how many times a day Betty is making the Starbucks run.

Did he enjoy himself? Probably. Women that old usually know their game well. Also, it may have been quite a while since Jethro got anything other than chafing marks from his right hand. Its called lotion people. Look into it.

Did Herman wake up and realize his wife is banging countless strangers in the guest bedroom? For all we know, Herman is dead and his memory is now being served up as part of Betty’s “Mercy fuck” pitch

Did I miss out? Probably not. I am in my own head often enough to know that this twisted little scenario is tailor made for nightmares and indigestion and being even more of a disappointment in the sack.

So, all in all, Betty actually gave me a better gift than some wrinkled ass and crying in the shower.

A somewhat lurid blog, which I always love, and an interesting half hour during a boring drive.

Plus, the coffee was good. (And I do enjoy a good scone.)

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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