| Hammock Parties |
12-27-2009 04:31 AM |
EPIC INTERNET DATING FAILURE
By A.R. Etard.
PREFAIL CHECK
OK, so, the other night this cute girl with this tight little body, that I met a couple months ago on a stupid dating site, starts talking to me. She wants to go out with me on New Year's because she wants someone to kiss. Being someone who NEVER ignores attention from hot chicks, I oblige, with the stipulation that we meet first just in case. She agrees.
We decide to meet for coffee on Saturday. She postpones. A few hours later I get a text just before midnight. She's at a bar and wants me to come out. I hate bars, but if someone asks me to one, I'll go. And again, I NEVER ignore attention from hot chicks, so like a good little boy I get in my car and head on over, at about 12:30 AM.
THE GREAT ESCAPE
This is where things get dicey. I have a lot of relatives visiting for the holidays. I don't want to wake any of them up. Plus, I am a huge pussy and feel if they discovered me sneaking out of the house in the wee hours of the morning, sort of dressed up, they'd want to bang me over the head with a bible.
Now, herein enters the first problem. TWO OF THEM HAVEN'T GONE TO BED YET. I feel very, VERY uncomfortable walking out of the house in front of them. It would be really awkward. It just doesn't feel right. So, I hatch a plan.
I open my window, pop out the screen, climb on my dresser and hop out. Yes, like a teenager breaking his curfew, I sneak out of the house. How pathetic. Then again, my screwed up psyche is driving me to do these things, so it doesn't seem so odd or juvenile. Merely exhilarating. ESCAPE!
I head to my car, get in and drive off. The night is mine. Just me, my dick, and open road toward a cute girl with a tight little body, that is begging me to come hang out with her. She thinks my faux scottish accent is "hot."
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON
About 20 minutes later I realize I didn't realize what the **** I was doing. This bar is on the other side of TOWN. It's not DOWNtown, god forbid, but it is WELL past the airport and if I get there before closing time it will be a miracle. Nevertheless, I am not going to pussy out. I am not turning forth. I press my foot against the accelerator, driving ever-so-slightly over the speed limit, onward.
I know where I have to turn. I need to get on the access road right before 59. At this point, it's 1:40 and all the IMMINENT FAIL ABORT MISSION alarm klaxons are going off in my head. This bar closes at 2. Time is of the essence. But, I've come this far, so I turn off on the access road. This is where things begin to get worse.
In horror, I realize the street I need to turn off onto HAS NO ROAD SIGN. What MORONIC UGNAUGHT OF ROAD ENGINEERING thought this was a good idea? HOW THE **** AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT ROAD TO TURN OFF ON? THE ****ING ROADS AREN'T LABELED?!?!?! CHRIST!!!!!!!!!! If I find that ugnaught I am going to put him into carbon freeze and chop the block in half.
So, I'm driving south along the 59 access road, wondering what the **** to do. After five minutes of mental hand-wringing, as the digital clock ticks away, I decide to turn around. I swerve on up until I hit 1960 and pull into a gas station.
"Hey," I ask the bleary-eyed fat mexican as she extends the safety-deposit thingamajig from behind the glass, afraid I might be packing heat at 1:55 AM. "Do you know where 1st street is?"
"Right there."
She points to the street in front of the gas station. What a ****ing moron I am. Even so, I HAVE FOUND THE HOLY GRAIL. OUR QUEST IS AT AN END. WE THANK THEE LORD....
SCENE OF THE CRIME
1:57 AM. Anyway, I trundle on down the road for about 10 seconds until HALLELUJAH, KISS MY BLARNEY STONES AND ASS-TO-MOUTH THAT LEPRECHAUN, THERE'S THIS LEGENDARY PUB NAMED SHAMROCK'S. I pull on in as drunken people cavort in the parking lot, firing up their hormonal systems for imminent sexual congress. Will I join them?
After all, this is what people do, right? They go to bars on Saturday night and get laid? Dreams do come true. However, my nightmare is ONLY BEGINNING!!!!
After being carded by a large, burly black man, and worrying for a brief second about the seven-years-old fat photo I have on my ID, I enter the bar and see, only briefly, the girl I am supposed to meet. I do not get a full view of her, as it is dark and I can only see her face. However, I do note that she is kissing some other mother****er. Jesus ****ing Christ.
I panic, spin on one foot and exit the bar as quickly as I can, wishing to avoid making eye contact with this girl and embarrassing myself completely. I run for comfort and dial up our very own luv, who of course is awake and playing Clue with her cats or somesuch. Who knows.
More than happy to talk, dearest luv hears my desperate plea. "You won't believe what ****ing just happened to me....what the **** do I do now....should I ram my car into this bar....should I blow my head off?"
Leann, undoubtedly amused by the situation, thinks I should try to pick up some drunk slut. Not my style. Anyway, I hang up, happy to have vented, but no closer to reaching a resolution.
I call the girl I am supposed to meet and she is actually happy to hear that I have arrived. I told her I got lost, but she doesn't care and says to come inside. So, I do.
THE HORROR! THE HORROR!
There is no cute girl with a tight little body. This girl....if you can call it a girl...is some hunched over monster wearing a shawl and looking not unlike any number of denizens that appeared in the Mos Eisley Cantina or the main audience chamber inside the Palace of Jabba The Hutt. Come to think of it, she's more likely to be in Jabba's dungeons, waiting to be fed to the Rancor, who is better looking and has very muscular legs, but that is neither here nor there.
I am horrified. This...thing...looks like it just got finished with a three-day binger. Her skin is pale. Her eyes have deep, dark circles around them. I don't know what the **** she's wearing but she looks like she should be pushing a cart filled with pigeons in the park. My urge to run from her was as strong as Kevin McCallister's urge to flee from the pigeon lady in Home Alone 2. If this girl was 22, I was 16.
But, for some reason, I decide to give her a chance. I mean, I ****ing drove halfway across the state of Texas to see her, so I might as well get to ****ing know her. Maybe she has a hot friend or something. Stranger things have happened.
She is very drunk, and I follow her to IHOP. Her dinged pickup truck swerves dangerously as I trail and I am thankful to whatever deity is watching over me (probably that ****er Satan, who is laughing with delight at this point) that the International House Of Porn Is More Enticing Right Now is just two blocks away.
IHOP THIS IS OVER SOON
We get there and as I exit my car, some drunken hotties in a pickup yell at me. "Woo! Look at that tight booty!" They are staring at my ass apparently as I lock my car. I give them a knowing smile as they pass by. Ha. Maybe I should get out more.
Anyway, we get inside and make chit chat. I try to hide my absolute, sheer horror of the situation and decide to get some crepes. I decide to text Leann and tell her what has happened.
"This is terrible. She's much larger than her photos."
I hit send and think nothing of it. 10 seconds later I realize the muscle memory my fingers have been employing all night whilst texting Jabba's denizen has...gone and done something rather rash. Yes, I sent the text to Pigeon Lady. I hear her phone beep.
Oh my ****ing god. This night could not be going any worse.
In an attempt to salvage a VERY embarrassing situation, I ask her to turn her phone off, because it's the polite thing to do, and she has been using it alot since we sat down, and I'd like to have a conversation etc etc etc. She obliges, not realizing the horrendous social gaffe I have just committed. I excuse myself to the bathroom to regroup and check for sure that I just sent her a text which she will surely read later and go ballistic over.
Yes, there's no going back now. The electrons have traveled through the air and the deed is done. It's just a matter of waiting now. This thing is about to COMPLETELY BLOW UP IN MY FACE.
YOU'RE ALL CLEAR KID NOW LET'S BLOW THIS THING AND GO HOME
I exit the bathroom, and as I sit down, the look on her face tells me she took my toilet visit as an opportunity to turn her phone back on and check her message. Politely, she excuses herself.
Oh my god, well, at least it's over, right? Write it off as a learning experience. At least you found a cool bar and you know your way around Houston a little more now. And you broke in those jeans and got a drive-by hitting on from some hot girls. That was fun.
Oh, but no, mother****er. It isn't over. There's always falling action after the climax.
So I trundle on down the road, not really defeated, but definitely disappointed and oddly bemused by the EPIC FAIL I have just witnessed/engineered/suffered. She texts me "**** YOU." Well, that's nice. I tell her she shouldn't lie, and that is that. And to think I could have been sitting here updating GIF'D UP.
HOLY ****ING SHIT
Obviously not being Magellan or even a bird with a map in it's head, I begin to realize I AM ****ING LOST again. The road I am on ends in a dead end, and I have to turn left, and SUDDENLY I'M INSIDE THE ****ING AIRPORT?!?! What's next? Are some Russians executing a 3 AM drug deal going to pop a red cap in my ass? Look, I like adventure and all, but after escaping through a window and pretending to be Knight Rider for an hour before entering Jabba's Palace and attempting to dine with a Gammorean guard, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. Christ Almighty. Satan is still giggling himself silly.
SOMEHOW, I figure out how to get out of the airport. SOMEHOW, I get back on the right road, avoid any cops (I'm half-speeding) or drunken reeruns and make it home. I stop to procure some hot wings for tomorrow's game and ice cream, because when you have a shitty date, you really ****ing need some ice cream. But wait...we're not done yet.
I get home and unlock the front door. Everyone is asleep thankfully, ignorant to the fact that I was just out trying to stick my penis inside something despite not being married to it. I go to my room and...oh, I locked the door before I left. Uh, ****.
So, I have to go outside and climb in the window I climbed out of, like some reerunED PATHETIC TEENAGER. But at least I didn't step in dog crap.
THE END.
FAIL
PS - Right before I left, a really, REALLY hot girl with curly hair messaged me and wanted to chat. I guess, when one door closes (or rather, slams shut on your fingers and breaks them off), another one opens. But do I dare venture out into the night again? Do I dare risk the discovery of a curly-haired TOAD?
More importantly, despite how hot this new girl is, do I REALLY want to go downtown, and return to the scene of the crime where I totaled a car attempting to meet a chick at a club eight months ago?
Join us next time on JESUS ****ING CHRIST WHAT THE **** HOLY HELL **** THIS SHIT WHY DO I EVEN ****ING BOTHER?
Oh, by the way, I'm free for New Year's eve.
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