'Live-blogging' a first (and definitely last) date
'Live-blogging' a first (and definitely last) date.
This past weekend I somehow scored a date with this chick who is WAY out of my league, so I thought I would document it by âlive bloggingâ the entire thing. The plan is to bring my laptop along, and give you (and her) the juice as it happens. I know what youâre thinking: âWhy didnât I think of that?â or more likely: âYou are a retard.â Well, Iâm doing it anyway.
Just for the record before I start, nothing about this seems like a bad idea at all and Iâm 100% sure it wonât backfire in any way. Letâs do it.
7:30 p.m. - I thought I told her Iâd pick her up at 7:00, but I decide to be âfashionably late.â What I didnât realize was that Iâd taken âfashionably lateâ to a new level, as I was supposed to pick her up at 6:00. LAST Friday.
7:37 p.m. - She says sheâs in the middle of doing âpilates,â but I donât see any airplanes anywhere. She is a liar. After a few minutes of persuasion, I finally convince her to bury the hatchet and come out even though sheâs still a little pissed. (Hopefully at the end of the night Iâll get to âbury the hatchetâ too.)
7:45 p.m. - Alright weâre in the car on the way to the restaurant. I put in Meatloafâs Bat out of Hell. This is my dating litmus test. If a chick doesnât appreciate rock perfection, she doesnât deserve to appreciate my superior wang. Unless sheâs at least a D-cup or really, really smoking hot. Actually, the only criteria I have is that sheâs female, and Iâm even a little lenient on that.
7:57 p.m. - We just got to the restaurant, a nice little Italian place a friend told me about called Olive Garden. Itâs supposed to be pretty good. They gave me one of those little light-up buzzers and then I sat down three feet from them. I guess in case I decide to do a couple of warm-up laps around the parking lot, theyâll know where to find me.
8:04 p.m. - She just now asked me why I brought my computer along. As if it wasnât odd enough that earlier I was typing and driving at the same time. I told her that I had $1000 on the Clippers and I needed to see how they were doing. âYouâre funny,â she said.
8:33 p.m. - Got our table. I usually like to flirt with the waitresses a little to keep my dates on their toes, but tonight a tubby guy named Tony will be taking care of us. I tell him he has pretty eyes anyway.
8:40 p.m. â I try to make conversation, but having any intelligent interaction with this girl is like playing âFind the Talentâ with Ashlee Simpson and Carrot Top. (Sheâs dumb.)
9:05 p.m. â Our food just arrived. She ordered some kind of salad. I donât know if youâve been to Olive Garden before, but ordering a salad there is like a skinny guy with long hair asking for anal penetration in jail. Itâs GOING to happen regardless, except in jail Iâm pretty sure âsaladâ has an entirely different meaning.
9:43 p.m. - Dinnerâs over. She just excused herself to âgo throw up.â Now Iâm not usually a big pro-bulimia guy, but at least sheâs honest about it I guess. Waitâ¦ I just paid for her meal and sheâs just going to puke it up? How disrespectful is that? Should I make her pay for it? Thereâs no way Iâm flushing my momâs hard-earned money down the toilet like that. Literally.
9:50 p.m. - We just left the restaurant. I couldnât bring myself to make her pay for her meal. Not to worry, I have a plan to make this little overly-self-conscious regurgitation engineer get her âjust desserts.â
9:53 p.m. - For some reason I tell her she can pick the movie. My suggestion: anything but Fever Pitch. Her choice: Fever Pitch. She says: âJimmy Fallon is funny. And cute.â I say: âAnd dealing with a couple extra chromosomes.â She doesnât get it.
10:10 p.m. â Arrived at the movie theater, only for me to realize that Iâd âaccidentally left my wallet at the restaurant.â She says sheâll take care of it. After tickets, popcorn, a couple of drinks and my mandatory Sour Patch Kids, her grand total came to just over $40 (which is $10 more than I paid for our meals if youâre scoring at home, or even if youâre alone). I rule.
11:45 p.m. - The movie is over, THANK GOD. She says: âDid you LOVE it?â I say: âI can think of a few things I would have rather done with my time.â Like unscrewing a couple burnt-out light bulbs and smashing them into my eye sockets.
(In hindsight, I guess you could get the same effect with normal light bulbs, not just burnt-out ones. Whatever.)
11:57 p.m. - On the way home from the movie, in a last ditch effort to cop a cheap feel, I try Frank Costanzaâs âstop shortâ move, but it goes horribly wrong when I miscalculate the arm angle and she catches the business end of my elbow with her nose. Weâre on the way to the hospital now. She isnât happy. Iâm trying to figure out how to get blood out of my new shirt.
12:11 a.m. - I tend to get a little squeamish when dealing with the sick and injured, so I dropped her off at the emergency room. Also, Iâm pretty sure at this point in the evening my odds of getting any action are about as good as Michael Jackson ever fathering a human child.
(I think that was the first joke ever that included Michael Jackson and a child in which Michael Jackson did not have sex with said child. MJ likes little boys. There.)
12:28 a.m. - I am now sitting in the hospital parking lot stealing their wireless internet to look at porn. Itâs amazing what theyâre doing with science these days.
2:01 a.m. - I wake up from a deep sleep to her knocking on the window wearing one of those plastic facemasks that basketball players wear when they break their nose. I donât know if I should be more embarrassed about the fact that Iâm on a date with Bill Laimbeer or that Iâd fallen asleep mid-pump, with my pants around my ankles and my penis in my hand.
2:11 a.m. â This has got to be the most awkward car ride of my entire life. Except maybe the time my mom had to come pick me up at school because Iâd fallen asleep in the reading loft mid-pump, with my pants around my ankles and my penis in my hand.
2:20 a.m. - I drop her off at her house. She says: âThanks for like the worst date Iâve ever had, jackass. Donât call me, EVER.â I say: âYouâre fat.â