Great work this month, gang. Your lives are really fucked up, and I appreciate that so much. Thanks for being you.
The worst thing that happened to my beloved readers this month…
Hey B, your site cracks me up. Listen to this shit. I took a girl out, first date. We went to Central Park, I bought us nice stuff for a picnic – strawberries, salad, chicken salad, and fancy wine. Then we walk around a bunch and I buy her an ice cream. Then I give her some cab money and tell her we can go shopping next week. So when I go for a kiss, I gotta get one, right?! No fucking way. She says she doesn’t kiss on the first date. Hahaaa. Not calling her again. -Marque W; Delaware
I mean, I get where Marque is coming from. When I buy a girl some chicken salad, I expect a little action in return. And who isn’t turned on by a paternalistic, sugar daddy-esque offer to be taken shopping? Sometimes women just don’t get it. If anyone would like Marque’s email for a chance at strawberries and cab fare, I’d be happy to pass it along.
I went on a date with this Irish guy we’ll call ‘Cormac’. We decided to meet in Soho for brunch to pretend we were fancy, but awkwardly ended up in the same subway car on the way there. We kept exchanging glances of the “is it him?”/“is it her?” variety. No one wants to meet for the first time on the subway when you’re all sweaty and sitting next to a model. Anyway, we got off at the same stop, confirmed our identities and headed off for foodstuffs.
We had an awesome brunch which turned into a raucous afternoon of drinking and then ‘necking’ on the street—one of my biggest pet peeves but, meh, I was ‘daytime drunk’—all bets were off! I was performing with one of my old bands that Friday night, and he said he’d love to come watch it and maybe we could hang out later. I promised myself I would only have one drink so I could actually get to know him and not just his tonsils. Friday night, when my set was over, I walked up to him in the crowd to be greeted by the smell of someone who had marinated in a bathtub of whiskey, garlic and gasoline all day. “Where’ve you been, the Fresh Kills landfill?” He ignored me as he was concentrating on staying upright, and informed me it was time to drink. I was…hesitant…but brought him to the bar across the street anyway.
Just as I was introducing him to my friends, Cormac cut a heinous fart and declared, “I FARTED!” in his slurred Irish brogue, accompanied by a fist-pump. The crowd dispersed with mutterings of, “You sure did buddy” and pitying looks in my direction. He then proceeded to tell me that I had a big hook nose like a witch. He asked me if hair grew on my nipples. He said my outfit made me look like an idiot (an “eejit” was the exact term). My dancing made me look “demented”. He asked if one of my girlfriends was single. He wrapped it all up by saying, “But you look a lot better tonight than you did last time.”
Okay, so I was on a date with an insane alcoholic. Normally I’d stick around and try to wring more verbal gems out of him, but he was trying to break the record for ‘most farts in an hour in a crowded bar’, so I left. He called me several times—his messages were like, “Hey again! It’s Cormac. Had a great time the other night…your friends are great! You’re an awesome singer and dancer! The whole package! Let’s catch up soon!” These were always early morning phone calls; I assume he wanted to catch me before he started another historic day of drinking and slurring and farting and asking women about boob hair. I thought he should know how the date actually played out as apparently he had sent alterna-Cormac in his place. I left a long, detailed message filling in the plot-holes of his evening. I only heard back from him once after that–a one-line text that said, “I DID NOT!!!” You sure did Cormac, you suuure did. -Katy K; New York City, NY.
I farted on a date once. It was awful. It was completely by accident, but I knew the second it happened that the girl would not be sleeping with me. Even though there was no odor, and she didn’t hear it, still, something inside of her could sense that I had broken one of the laws. You do not fart on dates, you do not date a girl’s friends, you do not check her Mom’s rack. That is the code. So, in a way, I almost respect Cormac for having the balls and comfort to just let ‘er rip and damn the rules that bind the rest of us men. Almost.
You may remember a story from last month’s Olympics about the guy who tried to woo a girl by telling her Christians are stupid. Well, apparently the technique works just as well for the Jews. Check it out!
I met someone on Plenty of fish.com. (Do you notice how many of these stories start with Plenty of Fish?! Stop meeting people on Plenty of Fish!) He was very attractive and funny, and we enjoyed making fun of all the other people on Plenty that are insane. Our date didn’t have much structure and we met at the beach to walk around for a bit and see where it went.
After a bit I said something about me being Jewish. He stopped dead in his tracks, looked me right in the eye, and exclaimed “WHAT?? YOU’RE JEWISH!!!!!” He was shocked. I asked why he was so surprised and he said I wasn’t ugly enough to be Jewish. Also, he grew up in a Christian cult somewhere and had never actually met a Jew before. I responded by saying that since he lives in San Diego there is literally no chance that he hadn’t met a Jew before, he just hadn’t known it, since we hide our horns under our hair. He defended himself, saying that his friend is a bartender and worked at an Italian wedding and got hundreds in tips and then worked at a bar mitzvah and got none.
We were now pretty from our cars, so i decided to continue on with this date and see how much more he could offend me. Some time later, out of no where, he stopped again and said, “How can you not believe the messiah came, I mean, it’s pretty clear he did.” I attempted to defend Judaism, which having studied Jewish History and Judaism my entire life, I think I did quite well. The argument lasted a good 10 minutes and got pretty heated as I tried to pick up the pace to make it back to our cars before I got so angry I kicked him in the groin. When we reached our cars and the date was coming to an end he said, “You know I was just playing with you, right? I’d like to see you again” and went in for a hug. I left my arms at my side and grunted and he got the idea and walked away. -Marissa S; San Diego, CA
My favorite moment of the Holocaust was when Hitler walked up to the Jews and said, “You know I was just playing with you right? I’d like to see you again.” And that made it all OK.
Think your tales are Medal worthy? Send me your awful stories here!