Pat Freestone

Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?


June 23, 2003

Now, you might look at a man like me--someone with a managerial career, a keen intellect and pockmark-free skin--and assume that I wouldn't have any trouble in the dating department. You might think that I've had more than a few long-term relationships, several torrid affairs, and perhaps even a roll in the hay with a model or drunken television actress. You might even say to yourself, "that Pat Freestone's got it good, and I shall make love to him, or die trying." But the truth is, Cupid's arrow has yet to pierce this heart of stone. Rather, Cupid's arrow has not even flown in this direction.

Until I recently became rich, that is.

Now, thanks to the so-called "internet," I have found myself in the midst of a tug of war between my heartstrings and three of the most eligible bachelorettes ever to JPEG their way into my in-box.

I am torn.

On one hand, I feel the need to find a mate, settle down, and pass my Freestonian DNA onto a new generation. On the other hand, I am repulsed by women. So, I humbly ask you, my dear and loyal visitors, to help me determine which of these three foxy gold-diggers is most suitable for me. Starting tomorrow, I will be asking you to cast your vote in

Pat Freestone's Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?


You can make a difference.

Pat Freestone


June 24, 2003

Welcome to

Pat Freestone's Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?

My first potential wife hails from Chico, California, and goes by the name of Kristi. In her e-mail, she claimed to be 28 years old, 115 lbs, and 5'9" in height. She is pursuing a degree in nutritional studies. That should help her figure out how to put some weight on those bones!

KRISTI

***CLICK HERE TO VOTE FOR KRISTI***

Tomorrow--Bachelorette Number Two!

Pat Freestone

June 25, 2003

It1s time to meet the next hopeful here at

Pat Freestone's Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?

Annabelle is a 25-year-old waitress from Tempe, Arizona who says that her ultimate fantasy is to "make love to her man...with a lot of help from one of her sexy girlfriends." That doesn't sound like much of a fantasy to me. Sounds to me like someone is just plain lazy!

annabelle

***CLICK HERE TO VOTE FOR ANNABELLE***

Check back tomorrow for more!

Pat Freestone

June 26, 2003

Please welcome the third and final female participant in

Pat Freestone's Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?


Her name is Susan, and as you can tell, she is from the good old US of A. Besides being friendly and attractive, she is also an accomplished writer. Her poetry speaks for itself:

Ode to Pat’s Head


I'm a cold heartbreaker, fit to burn
And I'll rip your heart in two
And I'll leave you lyin' on the bed
Pat Freestone
Have you seen my wig around?
I feel naked without it

Pat before I met you I was F.I.N.E. fine
But your love made me a prisoner
And my love’s been doing time

Come on little devil
Be my little angel

susan

***CLICK HERE TO VOTE FOR SUSAN***

Pat Freestone

June 27, 2003

Well there you have it.

You've met all the extremely eligible bachelorettes here on

Pat Freestone's Who Wants To Marry A Hundredthousandaire?

Now it's up to you to decide who becomes my new woman. Here are the votes thus far:

KRISTI: 6
ANNABELLE: 3
SUSAN: 11, 815

Thank you,

Pat Freestone

June 30, 2003

The voting continues here at

Pat Freestone's Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?

Here1s a few more interesting facts about my female suitors:

-KRISTI drives a Ford Mustang!
-ANNABELLE can speak some Spanish!
-SUSAN has an Enlarged Cervix!

Voting ends Friday!

Pat Freestone

July 1, 2003

The weather is heating up, and so is the competition here at

Pat Freestone's Who Wants to Marry a Hundredthousandaire?

The votes are still pouring in--here's the unofficial count as of this morning:

KRISTI - 13 votes!
ANNABELE - 10 votes!
SUSAN - 81, 951 votes!

Keep 'em coming!

Pat Freestone

July 2, 2003

I realize that placing my future relationship in the hands of you, my trusted web visitors, is indeed quite a lot to ask. So I suppose at this point, it might help to share with you a little something about my romantic history, so that you may make a more informed decision as to what kind of woman I should be with, and ultimately be destroyed by. I don't usually like to talk about my father, but I realize that he is the model on which I base most of my adult behaviors, and thus, any discussion of my relationships with women must include a discussion of my relationship with him.

On my twelfth birthday, my father proclaimed that it was time for me to finally become a man. He and my Uncle Dale put me in a truck and drove me from Puyallup, Washington all the way to Reno, Nevada--the "World's Smallest Big City." After a night's sleep in a rather dusty motel, my father and Uncle Dale drove me to the "Magic Moon Ranch" where I was led into a small, heavily perfumed velvet room and told to wait by myself. After a few minutes, a woman dressed in frilly undergarments came in, sat down on the couch next to me and said, "son, get ready for the ride of your life."

The woman then introduced herself as "Bunny," and proceeded to apply some sort of ointment to my private area. Nervously, but bravely, I accepted the fact that I was about to become a man. Then, twenty seconds later, I became a man all over the side of a nearby satin throw pillow.

For the entire ride home, my father and I never talked about what happened between Bunny and I. My father was a quiet fellow, and had just recently divorced my birth mother, dear old Mabelline Freestone, who at the time was missing and presumed eaten by polar bears. Over the next few years, my father made regular trips to the Magic Moon--by himself. He became quite close with Bunny, and on the eve of my seventeenth birthday, proudly announced to me that he and Bunny had just been wed. Thus, the woman who taught me about the birds and the bees by deflowering me in a Nevada brothel became my Mother.

Now that I think about it, it was kind of weird, actually.

Don't forget to vote!

Pat Freestone

July 3, 2003

There's still time to vote for one of the suitors!



CLICK ON A PICTURE TO VOTE!

Pat Freestone

July 10, 2003

The results are in!!

KRISTI - 43 votes!
ANNABELLE - 39 votes!
SUSAN - 1,770,386,007 votes!

Now, as soon as I finish my thorough recount, I'll be able to officially announce a winner!

Long live democracy!

Pat Freestone

July 14, 2003

It's official.

With a margin of well over 1.7 million votes, Susan has emerged as the top contender in

Pat Freestone's Who Wants To Marry a Hundredthousandaire.

Granted, of those 1,770,386,007 votes, all but sixteen of them were from me, but then again, I'm the one who has to wake up next to her for the rest of my life.

In any case, my heartfelt condolences go out to Kristi and Annabelle. It's just not meant to happen between us. I don't want to ruin our friendship. It's not you, it's me. The people have spoken.

Forever yours,

Pat Freestone

July 15, 2003

You may be asking yourself, "what will Pat Freestone do, now that he has found his perfect woman?" That's funny--that's exactly what I'm asking myself!

I must admit, I'm a bit nervous about meeting Susan. It's been a long time since I've been on a date. Actually, I can't remember the last time. Actually, I specifically remember 'never' being the last time. So to prepare for the cliche'd rituals of heterosexual courtship, I've helped myself to a few research cassettes from the Big Screen Video Romantic Comedy section.

Now all I need is a clever dog, an adorable child, an English accent, a cello, roller-skates, a time machine, a blind grandmother, a winning lottery ticket, temporary amnesia, a magic hat, and some Jews.

Then I'm ready for some sweet, sweet lovin'.

Fondly,

Pat Freestone

July 16, 2003

I have found true love.

At last, I know why I am here on this cold, desperate rock we call Earth. I know why the sun rises to wake me each morning. I know why my heart pounds in my chest. It is because of her.

Her name is Susan. I'll yell it from yon window: SUSAN!

Before she came into my life, I was lost. Now I am found. With all my being, I love and cherish her. Each precious thought of her races from my head to my heart like liquid lightning. Each second I am away from her is an eternity spent alone in a black hole.

I hope she is not retarded.

Pat Freestone


July 17, 2003

Tonight, I will e-mail Susan and inform her that I have accepted her offer to become my woman.

I have taken the liberty of drafting a brief pre-nuptial agreement that I think is fair and open-minded. Here is a sample item:

ARTICLE #32,208. I, the undersigned, will not use my female breast (i.e. witchcraft) to render the party identified as Pat Freestone into any manner of marsupial or reptile, or perform any evil by which my menstrual cycle brings bad omen or destructive flood heretowith, or such force majure unto said individual by use of my heresy, voodoo, demonic possession or estrogen poisoning of the air and/or soil.

Now, I'm no lawyer, but I think that pretty much covers me on that part.

Officially,

Pat Freestone

July 23, 2003

My most sincere apologies for my recent unavailability and subsequent neglect of you, my loyal and deeply cherished web visitors.

I blame love.

Love--the kind that can make you weak. The kind that hurts. The kind you might find in an elevator.

But it would only be fair to announce to you all that despite my spinning head, pounding heart and clammy, tingling extremities, I am ready to ask my new woman, Susan, out on a date. I shall wine her. I shall dine her. I shall polish her apple like an Italian shop-keep.

For I am in the grips of love.

Sincerely,

Pat Freestone

July 24, 2003

From the Inbox of Pat Freestone:


Dearest Pat,

Well, well, well.

Imagine my surprise to see how popular I am in the one-horse-race
of vying for your affections. The last time I felt this popular
was that time in high school when I 'helped out' the entire football
team behind the bleachers after the game. I'm quite overcome and
don't know what to say.

I'm pleased you saw through my shy exterior, Pat, and saw me for
the kind, loving person I am. I haven't a mean bone in my body.
You'll probably be happy to know I've been practicing writing my
name as Susan Freestone, and I get shivers when I see it down on
paper. Or that could just be some kind of fit. I look forward to
our next step together.

:-) :-) :-) Susan


Tonight. Outback Steakhouse. Table for Two. I think you know what I’m talking about.

Excitedly,

Pat Freestone

July 25, 2003

Thursday nights are usually quite busy at Outback Steakhouse, so for my date with Susan, I made sure to arrive approximately seven hours early. The host was kind enough to seat me at a lovely table for two in an area he had just vacuumed.

I don’t know if it was love at first sight, or the thirteen Koala Koolers I drank while I was waiting there for Susan, but when she finally arrived, I was stunned by her breathtaking beauty. "We meet at lash," I said to the two of her.

Almost immediately, it was obvious that we shared a real connection. The conversation flowed without the usual uncomfortable pauses, and when we looked in each other’s eyes, the chemical exchange going on between us was practically setting the room on fire. Susan gave our waiter her order, and amazingly enough, it was the exact same meal I order every time I dine at Outback Steakhouse: three fried onion blossoms and a dish of lime sorbet. Just so she wouldn’t feel awkward, I had the scampi and a bowl of gin.

Towards the end of the meal, we did one of those saying-the-same-thing-at-the-same-time exchanges that are so popular on television sit-coms. "Can I ask you something?" we both said. "You first," we both said. "No, you first!" we both said. We laughed, and she reached over and took my hand.

"Pat," she cooed, "I feel like I’ve finally met my soul mate."

That’s when it hit me—it’s time to cut this clingy chick loose.

TGIF!

Pat Freestone

July 28, 2003

Breaking up is hard to do.

It wasn’t easy, but I had to tell Susan the truth. I couldn’t sit there, staring into those innocent, slightly misshapen eyes and continue to live a lie. I could no longer hold her delicate, somewhat reptilian hand, knowing that she and I were not really meant to be. But more than anything, I couldn’t bear the thought that even though we had only been together for ninety minutes, she had used the word ‘yummy’ four times.

Yummy? What are you, six?

Excuse me, I have to go tinkle.

Pat Freestone

July 30, 2003

I used to love her. But, it’s all over now.

Tonight, I have to officially break things off with my girlfriend Susan. I’ve thought about it all very carefully, and I’m convinced it’s the right thing to do. But I don’t want to come off sounding like one of these uncaring, love-em-and-leave-em types, insincerely rattling off the usual blow-softening lines like, "it’s not you, its me," or "I don’t deserve a woman like you," or "we either break up right now, or I club you to death in your sleep and make it look like a suicide."

Instead, I plan on openly discussing my emotional needs with Susan, expressing my concern for her feelings, and then convincing her that two people like us trying to succeed in an adult relationship is like two first-graders attempting to isolate the gene for Parkinson’s Syndrome.

It has to be this way.

Regretfully,

Pat Freestone

July 31, 2003

What happened?

Last night, I went over to Susan's apartment to put an end to our dysfunctional relationship once and for all. I was prepared for tears, perhaps even some girly-style slaps to my face and sternum. But I certainly wasn't ready for what Susan had in store for old Pat Freestone.

I remember most of the evening quite clearly. I showed up at 8:30, as planned, and was given a tour of Susan's spacious alcove apartment and fire escape gazebo. She offered me a Margarita, but since I knew I would be needing a clear head, I stuck to the sack of St. Ides 40-ouncers I had brought with me. We talked about the weather, we talked about current events, and then the time came to talk about us. Susan insisted that I try one of her famous Margaritas. I agreed. That was the last thing I remember.

I woke up this morning on the floor of my apartment, with no idea how I'd gotten there. I was completely disoriented, and blinded by a splitting headache and smears of lipstick all over my glasses. Even more suspicious was the distinct aftertaste of Viagra and Rohypnol in my mouth.

And as I relieved myself, I had that terrible sensation that someone had been outside of me.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

Pat Freestone

August 1, 2003

It’s times like these that I’m glad I never leave home without my Pat Freestone Black Box.

It’s a simple device—a scaled down version of the cockpit recorder found on your standard commercial airline—that I generally keep taped to the small of my back whenever I leave the house. I have found that the Pat Freestone Black Box is extremely helpful in those situations where I wake up with no idea what happened to me the night before. My break-up date with Susan the other night is a perfect example. Based on evidence collected from the Black Box, I can be somewhat certain that Susan did indeed sedate me and slip me a large dose of Viagra without my knowledge and then had sex with me without my consent. Here is a rough transcript of a key moment from the salvaged recording:

22:14

SUSAN: How’s the Margarita, pat?
PAT: Ish jush great! Ish kind of warm inere iddn’t it?
SUSAN: Why don’t you take off your tie?
PAT: Woo! Ima zausted! (inaudible)

22:17

SUSAN: Aw! Looks like Patty went bedsy-bye!
PAT: (mumble)
SUSAN: We better take off these slacks and get ready for bed!
(zipper sound)

22:24

SUSAN: Oh, yes! Oooh!
(squeaking noises from couch springs)
PAT: (groan)
SUSAN: Oh!

It doesn’t sound good.

Pat Freestone

August 4, 2003

I spent a quiet weekend at home going over the events of the other night at Susan’s where, as the audio tape from my personal Black Box can confirm, I was drugged, stripped, and raped. Of all the emotions I’ve felt over this incident—fear, anger, denial, regret, and agonizingly painful urination—one particular question keeps running through my mind.

What kind of woman would attempt to seduce an independently wealthy man via e-mail, lure him to her apartment, and then discreetly poison his drinks with sedatives and erectile enhancers, allowing her to attempt to impregnate herself by him without his knowledge or consent? What kind of woman, I ask?

I’ll tell you what kind. A real go-getter.

I think I’m falling in love all over again.

Yours truly,

Pat Freestone