Yep, that is the question my date on Wednesday asked me. The first question he asked me, even before the “How are you this evening?”. *le sigh* But loves, let me back up and start with how this whole debacle started.
Ok, so I met this dude online, lets, for shits and giggles, call him Napoleon. Heh heh heh. So I met Napoleon on one of the free sites I’m on (yes there are more than one at this point, what can I say, I’m getting bored) anyway, he’s not what I’ve been going for in the recent (maybe its been like 2 years, whatevs) past and I thought I’d give it a whirl. THERE IS A REASON I DON’T GO FOR THIS TYPE ANYMORE, how could I forget? Well, he’s not bearded, not as tall as I would like (his profile said 5’9″), and more cherubic in the face than I find attractive, but no biggie, that’s just me being superficial. He was well-educated (which is nice, but unnecessary), well spoken while we emailed and texted, well read, etc. So we decide to meet. Well, and this is a smart move on his part, AFTER we set a time and place for this date he reveals he lives in his parents’ basement. Fuck. Seriously? I hope you’re laughing babycakes, because this is just right up my alley, amirite? Well despite everyone telling me I should cancel this date, I decided to go through with it, I mean, at this point I’m banking on it being awful. I’m so glad I wasn’t disappointed!!
We decided to meet at a local (to me) bar that has awesome beer specials on Wednesdays, not to mention hella ambiance. 7pm was the appointed time, and I got there on time. Now he was driving in from out-of-town, so I didn’t give him hell for being about 15 minutes late, because when I say out-of-town, I mean about an hour and a half away. *shrug* oh well. So I’m sipping on some Brooklyn Brown on tap (why does a beer being on tap make it taste so much better than the bottle?) when Napoleon strolls in, in a pastel pink button down *snicker*. Now some dudes can wear pink, whatevs, but when you’re 5’5″ and a toe head, you look ridiculous. Those of you who read the second paragraph should note that his profile said he was 5’9″.
Why do dudes lie about height? I am going to realize when you are 4 inches shorter than you said, especially when you end up being my height. *eye roll* dipshits.
So, he sits his ass down and those words come out of his mouth. And he is so busy laughing and talking about how funny his question is he can’t hear my response, “Because I didn’t want to feel obligated to sleep with dudes who live in their parents’ basement.” Damn. It was a good comeback and totally wasted because this douchenozzle thought he was the funniest thing since, well I don’t know what, but something super funny. Like those freaking goat screaming videos: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6w4jkJVrxY
Worst part? The date only went down hill from there. I had no idea it could get worse, but baby, it did. Holy fuck, it did. I mean once he started talking he never stopped. And it was about people I didn’t know, places I’d never been, things I’ve never done (and never wanted to do. Like golf. No offense friends that like golf, it’s just not my thing), etc. Oh! And he was the hero of every single story, because he’s the most bad-ass mother fucker that has ever lived. Well at least he thinks it is. So when he starts his 3rd extra long story the conversation ends up going something like this:
Napoleon, while flailing his arms all over the place and reaching across the booth, “Oh and this I was at a friend’s house and the most amazing thing ever happened…”
Me, while checking my watch, “Did a smurf riding on a unicorn show up and shit on the porch? Because I’m pretty sure that would be the most amazing thing EVAR!!”
Napoleon cocks an eyebrow, assumes a disapproving expression and says, “Are you going to keep interrupting me or are you going to let me finish the story?”
Baby cakes, let me say, I now wish I had thrown my drink in his face, mostly because I’ve always wanted to do that, and I think it was kind of warranted. I mean seriously, you’re going to chastise me for interrupting your story, when you’ve monopolized the conversation for the past 40+ minutes? Fuck that shit. So I told him he was free to finish the story if it had a point. OH SNAP. Sadly, my zing got no response. But that was the majority of the evening, him talking about himself and me staring at my beer or the bartender or anyone else in the bar. OH!! But, and this was weird and creepy, if I wasn’t looking in his general direction, he would move around until he was physically in my line of sight and find a way to make eye contact, even if he had to hunker down in the booth or stand up. My hand to god. I had to have all my focus on him. To be fair, I learned all sorts of interesting things about him, like he has a foot sweat problem (so sexy, right? I mean I almost jumped him after he told me about that. Oh wait, no, what actually happened is I started gagging. Mostly because of his description and he couldn’t figure out why I would find the idea of his feet sloshing around in a cup of foot sweat offensive [seriously, typing that made me gag a bit]) and I learned a new term. Crop dusting. Yep: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=crop+dusting he totally went there. I have no words.
AND it gets worse. He wants a second date. Well wanted. I said no, obvi. Why did he think any of that was ok? A coworker suggested that maybe he also writes a blog about horrible dates, but it totally doesn’t count if you make it a bad date. Duh. Idiot. So that’s where I’m at loves and I have to say, after talking it over with Red, the reason I’m not a prostitute, really is the lack of a good pimp. True story.