The Case of The Dirty Emailer

 Envious of the abs on the cover of Shape magazine, we here at DABA headquarters replaced our desk chairs with giant exercise balls. The exercise balls were working great until we read this post and d*mn near fell off them. The story came to us without needing any help from the DABA humor department. We give you- the case of The Dirty Emailer.

We live in Chicago and had been together for 2 yrs. He worked in finance and I was finishing grad school. I was in the middle of finals and hadn’t slept in three nights (grad students are like rock stars, they don’t die, they just burn out slowly). I was running on empty and sent my FBF to the store to replenish my Swedish fish, supply. Bored with Perez Hilton and in need of a mental break from my thesis, I utilized this opportunity to read my FBF’s emails. When, oh, when will men learn? If you don’t log out we consider it our god given right, scratch that, our duty, to read your personal emails. Then again, if you do log out you’re equally screwed because then we know you have something to hide. 

My blood shot eyes went right to an email from a female name that I didn’t recognize. Jackpot. I was a grad student on the verge of a breakdown and had just found exactly what I needed to push me over the edge- dirty emails between my FBF and a mystery woman. No naked pictures, no “last night was dope,” just your standard issue  dirty emails. Although this is obviously grounds for a break-up I wasn’t satisfied. I needed to know the whole story. If I was going to end things with my FBF, then I was doing it in true drama-queen, psycho-girl style. 

Fortunately, gmail has this handy dandy little feature that allows you to instant message people in your address book. Don’t mind if I do. The “other woman” was online.  I got straight to the point and demanded answers. Just as I was mid-extraction of evidence, my FBF returned from the store. I checked my temper just long to assure the safe passage of the Swedish fish to me and then hurling every inanimate object within my reach at him rapid-fire. 

He retreated to safety outdoors when I lunged for our iron.  Initially, I dashed from the living room, where I was instant messaging the dirty emailer, back to the front door where I was verbally stripping my FBF of his manhood. Unfortunately, the 40 yard dash between the computer and door was depleting my energy reserves.  I convinced the mystery emailer to talk to me on the phone.  This allowed me to get the story and yell at my FBF in real time.  Either she had no idea that my FBF had a girlfriend or she sensed that I was a half-crazed grad student one cocktail away from the Betty Ford Center. Regardless, she was clearly willing to talk in exchange for a reduced sentence. I was just getting to the bottom of the story when the cops showed up. Rightfully concerned, the neighbors had placed a call. 

The cops took one look at my big brown eyes and naturally golden hair and sensed who the culprit was. They left my FBF outside, sat me down and asked what he had done to me. “He, he he, ahhhh, email, herrrrrrr.” I was too hysterical to talk so I put the cops on the phone with the mystery Dirty Emailer. She helpfully and succinctly explained that I was “such a nice girl and just the poor innocent victim of that loser”.

The cop offered “to put him away for the night” but I composed myself and assured them I could handle him myself. The cuter of the two cops and I exchanged numbers “just in case I needed anything” (who better to rebound with than a man in uniform?). When the cops left my vermin FBF managed to scurry  inside to plead his case. He loved me, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, I was his one and only, the other girl was nothing, it’s just that I had been so preoccupied with my thesis that (he’s now crying crocodile tears) I hadn’t been there for him when he needed me. And the other girl, well she listened to his problems at work, she looked up to him, and she’s didn’t understand what he did for a living, she just thought he was really smart and successful and that made him feel… I had heard enough. 

“She’s a great girl, I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”  I turn to go upstairs to start packing, he drops to the ground and wraps himself around my leg like a child with abandonment issues in the making. 

“Don’t leave me, I need you!” he pleaded.

“No”, I said, “You need a therapist, some self-respect, your mother, and a clue, but the one thing you do not need is me.”

The End.

“Carolina’s” story