Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Humiliating Tales of Humiliation Episode 7: Buhhhhh....
Dating is a terrible invention of the 20th century in which single people sit across from each other in a restaurant, bravely trying to say something interesting and/or hilarious while holding in a fart.
The subjects in this social experiment have silently agreed to publicly embarrass themselves for a few hours, all in the hopes of finding The One. Or, at the very least, having some awkward, you-just-whacked-me-in-the-nose-with-your-elbow type sex.
I never did too much dating. I was what is known as a "serial monogamist." That's a person who giddily jumps into a relationship as if she were jumping into a pool. Only eventually she realizes the pool is filled with rusty nails and diarrhea. So she climbs out of that pool and walks down the block to jump into a different pool. But that pool turns out to be full of wet boogers and ebola. And so on.
I did, however, go on a handful of dates. I'm pretty sure they were 90% garbage. By far, my most tragic moment occurred when halfway through the meal, I suddenly couldn't remember if the guy's name was "Curt" or "Kirk."
I was praying to get through the night without having to use his name. But because I'm really, really, REALLY popular, someone I knew came into the restaurant. So I tried to hide the sad gap in my knowledge by talking super fast and kind of slurred.
I said, "Billy, this is Currrrrh. Currrrrh, Billy," because if you want to come across as a viable life partner, talking like a drunk cokehead is the way.
Billy couldn't even keep a straight face. He just laughed and backed away from our table. He might still laughing about it now.
Needless to say, Currrrrh was not The One. Nor did we have you-just-took-a-chunk-of-skin-off-my-shin-with-your-toenail type sex. We finished the dinner, awkwardly said "Buh-bye," and never saw each other again.
Though in keeping with the tone of the evening, I probably should have just said, "Buhhhh...."