I got tricked into agreeing to a blind date. More like lured. Went out for drinks with some peeps from work last night and my froworker "just happened" to see some guy she knows at the bar and this guy "just happened" to be totally by himself at said bar. I find that utterly creepy unless you're there to meet people, and even then wait in your car dude. You look like a sex offender stalking the bar for your next rape victim. This guy "just happens" to be a guy she hasn't shut up about for 3 weeks. "Oh Steph, he's REALLY cute" "Oh Steph, he's intelligent and has a great job, owns his own condo." Ohhhhhhhhhhh....Steph doesn't care.
I have gone on blind dates before. They always end in horrible disaster mostly because...
1.) you have absolutely no idea what you're getting into. One person's Brad Pitt is another person's bloated Marlon Brando in The Godfather. I don't trust anyone when they tell me someone is good looking.
2.) the hype. This guy has been built up to be the most amazing human being on the planet. Hot, funny, smart. And they never are. They're always mediocre at best. Too self aware, slightly moronic and socially retarded. Then you're forced to spend a few awkward hours with someone you wouldn't even piss on if they were on fire.
So my froworker bypassed the whole asking and me saying no bit and decided to just push me right into the shit pool and watch me drown.
I'm not good in forced situations. It takes all of my energy to behave somewhat socially acceptable in my every day life so to put me in front of some guy who's expecting a love connection while I'm 2 beers and a strong martini deep is a bad move. I have no filter. I have no verbal catheter. A thought goes in, the words come out and I don't even know it's happened until someone gives me a shocked look and I realize I've verbally pissed the bed.
His name was Rod. It's 2009. No one should be named Rod. That's for bad 80's movies only. In order to be named Rod you need to have feather hair, drive a camaro and only listen to Foreigner and Cheap Trick.
He was wearing a silk shirt. I literally said "Is that silk? I didn't know they still made silk shirts. Is that your 'goin out' shirt? Seriously, is this a joke? Is that shirt a joke?" You would have thought I just told him his grandpa molested him or something.
He asked if he could sit next to me. I told him only if he bought my drinks for the rest of the night. He didn't even buy my next drink and I immediately told him to get out of the booth unless he was going to follow the rules.
At the end of the night I really did feel bad. This poor guy didn't stand a chance in Hell. And I blame my friend. She knows me better
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"His name was Rod. It's 2009. No one should be named Rod. That's for bad 80's movies only. In order to be named Rod you need to have feather hair, drive a camaro and only listen to Foreigner and Cheap Trick."
This right here is just classic shit. Seriously, if you stick with this blogging thing long enough, eventually you'll have enough material to write a book. And when you write that book, this quote is going to be on the back cover as a prime example of WHY everyone needs to read your book. Funny, funny shit.
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