By: Tini Soprano
The desert sun pierced through the linen curtains that hung between my quiet, dark, private hotel room and the pulsating exterior buzzing with various twenty and thirty-somethings cracking open the day’s first canned alcoholic beverages. The Palm Springs Hotel was crawling with Harley-Davidson-clad, nuevo-hippies that drove here in a Prius. A muffled, abrasive rumble shook me awake as a hotel guest fetched some rocks from the ice machine beside our room. A beautiful, bright, shiny morning is about to be ruined by the visual of some dumb loser pervert’s dangling participle.
I rolled over across the king-sized bed and fumbled for my phone, unable to distinguish my hangover from a lingering intoxication from poolside tequila beverages. Checking Instagram, I noticed I received a direct message from a random follower. As I opened the messages, I noticed it contained blurry, flesh-colored images. “Well Jesus F****** Christ”, I muttered, “Is this a Dick?” I shook my boyfriend’s arm as he rolled over and put his head on my shoulder. With my eyes without contacts or glasses, I moved the screen far enough to where my s***** eyesight would blur the screen entirely.
“Tell me if it’s a penis or an Italian Hoagie!” I begged, as he assured me through his squinty bloodshot eyes, “It’s a dick, Tini.” I brought the phone closer to my face, four inches away from my nose, and screeched. The images were indeed the most unflattering, undesirable, and unsolicited pecker shots that have ever slid through my DM’s. After I flung my phone to the foot of the bed, I felt my face begin to blush. Whatever booze was left in my system lit a fire to an overwhelming sense of rage and confusion. I didn’t want to see that random dude’s penis, and neither did my boyfriend. But, with many social media platforms these days, sometimes these things filter in uninvited. And it is not the dick itself that made me so mad, it was my realized inability to respond with any type of equally unsavory material. Can I send him a picture of my lady goodies? Hell no! He’d love that. I would literally have to send a photo of this fool’s mother fellatiating a horse to inspire the same “I’m-going-to-puke-you-sick-f***” feeling that he so kindly imposed upon me. But I would never do that because I respect his mother’s inclination to fellatiate horses and I have no right to incorporate such imagery into my business.
In conclusion, as a message to anyone considering snapping a pic of their sausage and sending it over to some chick on Instagram who you think is going to swoon, don’t! Just do not do it. It is not the act of receiving an unsolicited dick pic that makes me so sad. It is the frustration and sense of defeat that comes with realizing that you cannot return such a disgusting perverted act with proper revenge. I don’t want to look at your dangling participle, so I will block you. However, I do welcome photos of Italian Hoagies. So be my guest.
