It was the spring of 2012 when I met the ultimate player. Joe Pussy was every girl's dream. Despite his atrocious nomenclature (not his real name, but the actual surname is just as awful), Joe was good looking with dream boat eyes. Whenever he took me out, he said the right thing at the right time. Joe was a comedian and actor who had achieved minor success some years ago, but his career had petered out. Needless to say, like all men in a jam, Joe was looking for a woman to provide him employment, a place to live, and function as a meal ticket. Of course, like all predators, he was able to hide his nefarious nature by being charming, funny, and extra complimentary.
One day, Joe took me to an Italian hole in the wall that he insisted served top notch food. On our way to the eatery, he told me he really liked my dress. Well the place was a hole alright, a disgusting hole that served dollar pizza, so technically it was Italian. After spending a total of two dollars on yours truly, Joe then proceeded to ask me about my career. Then Joe wanted to know if I had any shows coming up, and if they needed any extra comedians, aka he was broke, needed the gig, and needed the money. During this exchange, Joe had to hide his web of lies by changing tactics, and then proceeded to talk at length about this unpaid internet radio show he was hosting. After that Joe inquired suspiciously about my finances and living situation. He also wanted to know if my day job was hiring. His excuse, "I just want to see which industries are taking off."
Further evidence of Joe's deceit was exposed on Facebook when I saw he was running the same game on many different women in plain sight. He told each he liked their dresses by the way, and shamelessly asked them the same questions he did me live on cyberspace. I was outraged that he thought he had the right to just roll us all like barrels.
Two weeks later, Joe messaged me by saying, "I have been thinking of you all week." I told him it sounded like a mass text and told him off. Seething with rage akin to woman gone mad in a Lifetime movie, I had to have my revenge against this womanizer, user, and New York City dating horror story.
Then it hit me. My dad, after visiting The Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, suggested I write a country song. At the time I thought he was crazy. After Joe, it hit me perhaps this was the best way to send a message to bottom feeder men like this everywhere. Putting my pen to paper, pain plus distance equaled comedy as I wrote the three words, "Hell No, Joe."
Thus I recorded a country song and shot a video, too.