Recently, several friends (6) and I did the “Downtown Nashville” thing,  magically transformed into 16- year-olds again. We only had security called on us twice. We rented two hotel rooms, went to a concert at the outdoor amphitheater, and basically bar hopped the rest of the weekend we were there. We even did do one kinda-sorta cultural thing – we went to the Country Music Hall of Fame. For days, we enjoyed the city and the company of each other.  I could go into more detail because we have some hilarious anecdotes , but most of us are upstanding, respectable professionals and moms.  What happens in Nashvegas stays in Nashvegas. Suffice it to say a great time was had by all.

Except for this one thing. And you know me. I’m going to clamp down on the offense and shake the life out of it.

In “modern Nashville”, almost every freaking establishment has a rooftop bar. Nashville is so different from what it was just a couple of years ago. And we will not go into the underage drinking, weight limits, and fire hazard posed by cramming SO many people into such small spaces – third floor, most of them. Talk about a city losing its historical integrity.  I find it heartbreaking, but then again, I’m not the one raking in the bucks hand over fist.

On to the bitch-fest.

So, we were on the rooftop deathtrap at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge on a Saturday afternoon.  Seven of us. It was packed so tightly, you could barely exhale without touching another person.  Our gang, being the vain creatures that we are (with good reason, mind you), and loving to document everything, we asked this random kid to take a photo. (I say kid – he was probably in his early 20s.)  He agreed. We all lined up and posed, all the while this zygote in a green baseball shirt is telling us how good we look, how hot we are, yada, yada. You know the schtick. We thanked him, went back to attending to the business of alcohol consumption and discussing how we could parcour from bar to bar. Little Man went back to his crew, probably to measure their dicks.

It wasn’t too long before we got hot, claustrophobic, and wanted to move on.  As we were worming our way through the crowd, I was the last of our group to squeeze through the writhing mass of humanity. Right past the Little Man and his buddies. Close enough that I overheard their conversation. Had he ever changed his tune about the seven beautiful ladies whose photo he had taken.  Little Man was mocking us to his friends, making fun of how old we are, and how we bought every word of his gibberish.

Disclaimer: I may look sweet, and I am kind and sweet, but fuck with me or my friends and family and I will cut a bitch, regardless of gender. With my sharp tongue, of course.

In this instance, however, if the place had not been so crowded and I had room to rare back and kick the little twit in his newly descended testicles, you better believe I would have, battery charge or not. I could have easily claimed he had groped me.  Of course,  I have had much more experience than Little Man sweet-talking my way out of trouble.

Since my friends and I never had the chance to respond to his youthful boorishness (which is NOT a quality that  enhances your chances of getting laid, btw), I’d like to take this opportunity to send a message to him in this space.

Dear Frat Boy In The Green Baseball Shirt,

I am one of the “beautiful, hot, sexy” women that you were mocking to your friends Saturday, April 16, between 4 pm and 5 on the rooftop of Tootsie’s. You took our photo, remember? Guess what? I heard every word you said as we were leaving and informed my friends of what a snotty little asshole you are. We considered coming back and confronting you, but decided you were not worth the time or effort, because guess what, dear? You, yourself, most likely, have enough trouble with women. You, Little Man, are not all that. In fact, in Cougarland, you are not even worth a second glance. And if you had taken a second to familiarize yourself with your surroundings, we, the old women, were all in better shape than the majority of your contemporaries. My, how times and standards have changed.

Another thing.  When I was your age, I wouldn’t even have made eye contact, much less the effort to talk to you.  I was so out of your league, as were my friends, that I could have made you cry within 30 seconds. I’ve done it before (pretty recently, actually) and damn sure could do it again. Yes, pretty girls DO have a code of ethics, just like you’ve always suspected.  And of course, it is not all based on looks. We do make exceptions for intelligence, sense of humor, talent, and kindness.

Little Millenial boy, I wish I had gotten your contact information. First, I would call your mama and tell her that you were behaving like a rude little son of a bitch. Secondly, how I would love to see what you and your friends look like in 30 years. Fat, bald, and knuckle-dragging no doubt. Hell, you ain’t even cute now. Time will not be kind. 

I believe I speak for all my friends when I say “Fuck you, kid.” Beauty comes from the inside as well, and hearing you show off to your friends demonstrated to us all how ass-ugly you really are. 

Until we meet again…gird your loins, you little bastard.

• This post in no way reflects my opinion of the majority of men. I love men. I’m just as comfortable hanging out with a group of men as I am with a group of women. Just not assholes.