Meet GnomeGirl, my future wife. Sometime last week while Googling myself, I noticed another enlightened site (GnomeGirl) had paid B/R a couple a million for the right to print some of my work.
I'd like to thank Zander and company for creating and maintaining this site.
I will never be able to repay Bleacher Report for bringing GnomeGirl into my life.
I walked home from the library—where I do my daily Googling of myself. Different IP addresses, that is the key to achieving the fame of having your name "suggested" by the Google toolbar.
Back at my apartment, I slipped out of my public clothing and into something more comfortable. Specifically, loose velour pants, and one of my shiny glittered black t-shirts.
Then I sat and spun my computer chair around to the fridge and, in one motion, popped open the door grabbed the two-liter of bubbly water, still spinning, I poured a tall glass, and put the bottle back.
I closed the refrigerator door using my right foot. Using the left, I shoved off and slid into perfect position in front of my mahogany computer desk.
Bubbly water in hand, hair still perfect.
It is a ritual for me to quickly login to Bleacher Report and check out the number of girlfans accumulated over the past hour.
I'm not rude. I always post on their bulletin board the obligatory, "Thank you. I am flattered that you find me so hot."
After responding to all new girlfans, I was once again free to satisfy my own needs.
For the sole purpose of achieving Google fame, I built a program that allows one to easily change their IP address.
Blame it on a full moon, blame it on the rain, but there was something different that evening.
I decided to click on the GnomeGirl site.
Wow! Not only was she a beautiful sport nut, but she has impeccable taste in writing.
GnomeGirl must be rather poor. She could afford only a few of my articles.
The one's she chose though...
My early work. The toils from my salad days as a mere "member" and "contributor" to Bleacher Report.
GnomeGirl had pulled her pennies together and chosen my most romantic article, "Best Wedding Gift Ever." Then and there, I knew GnomeGirl was wifeable. I knew GnomeGirl would make an honest man of me.
No more video chat with the Romanian, Bulgarian, and Macedonian ladies.
I could not let GnomeGirl get away. I contacted her immediately.
Having learned from the time I sent a "thank you" email to the mother of one of my good friends, I now understand that to compliment the bosom of a lady is not appropriate when sending the first email—much less an attachment of a scanned drawing.
So, believe you me, the message I sent GnomeGirl was oozing the smooth.
The message was sent from my most private account—in fact, it was brand new... specifically created for GnomeGirl.
I just assumed it would be about an hour before she would get back to me. I was about to get up and look at myself in the mirror when the new account chimed as soon as I started to get out of my seat.
GnomeGirl was kind enough to send lots of ED medication advertisements. I couldn't help but to chuckle, and imagine what an unbelievably kind heart would send such a variety of choices that I would be free to order with the anonymity of the Internet.
I wrote GnomeGirl back thanking her, but also assuring her pretty little head that there was nothing to worry about.
It was after the second time I wrote that she purchased the services of an official London based barrister. I needed not to read the email.
GnomeGirl wanted to meet me in Nigeria.
I replied to the barristers email to make sure GnomeGirl would be there.
After giving the nice man my bank account info, social security number, mother's maiden name, and scanned copy of my birth certificate—he informed me that GnomeGirl was already there waiting to meet me.
The barrister went on to say that she had agreed to be my wife, and that if it were okay with me next Sunday, September 6, 2009 we will be wed.
To look at her photo would you imagine her so shy? Not me. But I like it!
Tomorrow I am catching a flight to Lagos, Nigeria to meet GnomeGirl face-to-face for the first time.
Next Sunday is our wedding date.
And all of my B/R friends are invited. This is hard for me to say, oh gosh, here goes...
To my many girlfans—I am officially off the market. Believe me when I say that it is not you. It is me.
Cherish your memories, but please do not blame GnomeGirl.
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