Dear cougar at the bowling alley,

Your pants were not hip huggers, I’m afraid they nearly gave all of us access to your reproductive organs, which I’m pretty sure none of us at the alley wanted to see.  Your hair was massive.  Massively awesome.  It complemented your cleavage which was out there for all of us to see.  Your hair and cleavage said, “I’m a respectable woman who is wholesome, full of character and available for the low price of $4.50/hour for things that are illegal.”  I’d recommend putting your warez away and considering that the rest of the public is not interested in your pubic regions.  At all.

Instead my family and I desired to see you and your friends having a good time in a G-rated, or possibly PG-rated manner wherein maybe your shirt was slightly low cut, but not designed to let your nearly college graduate boyfriend take regular peaks from over the rim of his beer glass at what were surely nearly aged bosoms as those he weened on two decades ago.

I’m trying to refrain from calling you a whore because that sounds negative, and I don’t want you to think I think that of you.  I’d prefer that you just understand that I don’t want to know you in that way, my family doesn’t want to know you that way, and I don’t want my young impressionable children to think, “Mommy, why don’t you dress like a cheap whore?”  Mostly because there are great women out there that they could be like.

I’m going to predict you won’t read this, but if you do, know that I don’t hate you, but instead, I want you to just put some clothes on.  I’ll only show you my bowling balls and you can just show me your bowling balls, but that’s not to be a double entendre, its just me saying that at the bowling alley, we only need to see the sport implements.  Get a Burqa.

Yours truly,

Randy