I usually don’t do this kind of thing. Usually I meet women through my work as a kickboxer or at family reunions. Don’t get the wrong idea, I mean my brothers date some kick-ass girls and they all want a piece of Dooley Finster, I would never date a woman who was related by blood unless she was a cousin or something ‘cause I ain’t having no fucked-up Rain Man kids. But I saw you at the traffic accident and felt something cosmic between us.

You felt it, too, didn’t you? You were studying me pretty close while I was doing that breathalizer test. I caught a look at your fine ass and I thought I was going to pass out, and it wasn’t from the .13 blood alcohol level.

I was putting on a big show just for you, darling, once I knew you were in the audience. If you hadn’t been there, maybe I wouldn’t have called those cops pussies and kicked out the window of the patrol car. Hell, they liked to never get the cuffs on me, I was floating like I was on fucking air or something. All because of you.

Don’t pretend you weren’t flirting with me, too, flipping your hair back, adjusting your blouse. I don’t have the subtlety you do, maybe, the best I could manage was to punch my whining girlfriend in the lip and expose myself to the crowd. I could have just winked or something, you probably would have known. But I got the feeling you knew it was just for you, babe.

My racist remarks caught that black cop off guard, I could tell, and maybe you as well. But that’s not who I am. I talk a good game, but that’s only who I am when I’m out in public and running a good buzz. There’s a lot of times I feel vulnerable and fragile, like when the black cop was hitting me in the ribs with his baton. I want to share that side of me with you.

So anyway, I suppose you know what I’m getting at. You were the tall, gorgeous blonde in the crowd. I was the abusive foul-mouthed bigot being wrestled to the ground and hog-tied with plastic binders. If I hadn’t been carted away and charged with D.U.I., assault and battery and attacking a police officer I would have asked for your number, or maybe to go out and get coffee sometime. If you’re reading this, call the commune or e-mail them or something and they’ll put me in touch with you. I can’t wait to get your number!

I hope you’re ready for the most special date of your life. I’d like to take your hand in mine and walk through the street, just getting lost in the shards of broken glass from where my car hit that cop cruiser. Maybe take you out to dinner at the nicest bar in town, provided you can cover me until my lottery ticket pays off. I’ll bring along my laundry, we’ll make a day out of it.