Hey, I've had good dates, dates that have gone well, dates that have ended with a mutual understanding that we could stand each other. But no one reads this blog for good news. My readers want misery wrapped in cynically humorous comments. Okay.
I blogged a long time ago about the girl who, over dinner, casually mentioned her disbelief in the existence of the holocaust. I should have known when she wanted to eat at a place called "Hitler's Roadhouse".
Shortly after that debacle I was set up on a blind date by a female friend of mine. This "lady" took several cell calls before, during, and after dinner, announcing after the last one that she had to talk to this guy since she fucked him in a parked car the night before. "Really?" I thought to myself. "Are you wearing the same underwear? Maybe you can search around down there and place some of his day-old spunk on my lips, you gutter tramp." Hey, I know adults have sex. Just don't show up on our date reeking of new car, Aramis cologne, and another guy's cock. If we didn't have the same friend, I would have excused myself, came back after twenty minutes, and said, "That is one hell of a waitress. Smell my finger." She actually asked my friend why I never called her again.
A part time cashier at Organized Living set me up with a friend from her church. It was a normal church with a fairly middle of the road theology; and the cashier, while not exactly Bijou Phillips, drank socially and would say the word "shit" if someone gave her a turd sandwich. I thought her friend would be cool. I was wrong.
I met her at the tasty yet affordable Capri Italian Restaurant inside the Sunset Station Hotel and Casino. The first personal tidbit she volunteered about herself was "I like to wake up a few hours before work so I can begin the day by spending quiet time with Jesus."
I immediately had a flashback to the aforementioned bad date, but it turned out Jesus wasn't a landscaper she was scrogging; He was her lord and savior. I let it go, but I had to ask a follow-up question of sorts. "Would you like a glass of wine before dinner?" She gave me a look as if I said "Mind if I crawl under the table and go yodeling in your gulley?"
"Oh, I don't drink," she said, and by her tone I expected the next two sentences to be "But I guess you do. Well, isn't that special?" presented in her best Church Lady voice. Instead she stated, "I used to drink quite a bit before I was delivered."
Once again I was confused. Did she mean she was born with fetal alcohol syndrome? No, it was another wacko evangelical term meaning God had saved her from evil evil liquor. Fifty-thousand children starve to death every single day, but Our Heavenly Father dropped everything because a spoiled, middle-class twit didn't know the meaning of the word moderation
. What kind of wine goes with hubris?
As everyone knows, I'm a forgive and forget kind of guy, Mr. Tolerance they call me; so I was willing to let it go, until THE STORY. Obviously I don't remember it word for word, but here is a condensed version that is fairly accurate.
"My church singles group had a New Year's Eve party last year, but (and at this point she almost starts to sob) one of the guys brought a bottle of champagne and I didn't think it was right to drink it at that party. Even though it was at a member's house, it was still a church party. No one listened to me, though, so I went home and the next day I had to call the Pastor and tell him what happened."
That was the end for me. I could actually see my spirit float away from the table and head toward the Hooters Restaurant on the other side of the casino. I also stopped the polite routine.
"So, this was the teenage youth group?" I asked.
"No, it was the single adult group," she said. I couldn't see it, but I think at that point my spirit settled its tab at Hooters and headed to a strip club.
Let's review: Someone brings champagne to a New Year's Eve party held at a private residence and attended by ADULTS; she gets all twat-hurt, storms out like a kid who got a shitty Happy Meal prize, and rats them out to the preacher. She was on a personal crusade to make sure nobody ever enjoyed themselves in her presence. What a joyless waste of estrogen.
She did look nice. I didn't know Old Navy made hairshirts.
There are countless others, but this is enough for now.