Tuesday, November 23, 2010

sharing is caring.

so i let some asshole talk me into signing up for speed dating. here's the thing: in my mind the whole concept of speed dating is counterintuitive when trying to meet a substantive and interesting dude. by design, you only get to know whatever incredibly witty (or massively stupid) introduction a person can cram into a three-minute soundbite. and the idea is the antithesis of who i fucking am, particularly since the most i could conceiveably get out of my mouth in the alotted time is "samantha. thirty. blog. kittens." you know, because of all of the nervous shifting and stuttering and adjusting of my various layers of clothing. i'm lucky that more people don't think i'm functionally retarded when they first make my acquaintance.

this is the problem with my various online dating profiles. they all sound totally fucking stupid; boring and long-winded yet not really encapsulating what it is that makes me awesome. actually, they're mostly brief. except that i can't help but list 800 metal bands and rappers and folk singers or whatever the fuck i'm listening to at the time. instead of sitting down and thinking, "how best can i present myself to the sexually neglected human male population?" and coming up with something charming and fantastic, i just say "hey, i'm hilarious!" and make a list of all the cool shit in my ipod. what a fucking asshole. i'm always surprised that i manage to get the limited responses i do; i am always tempted to respond, "you really thought that was interesting?!" at the risk of jinxing something rad, i just met this funny dude who i kind of think is the fucking shit. a super nice dude who HUGGED ME FOR A REALLY LONG TIME WITH HIS EYES CLOSED. (ginger was standing behind us.) so he messaged me and i read his whole thing which was smart and well-written and made me want to take my goddamned pants off, then i read my own and was like, "bitch, you're stupid." this dude must like broads who love to eat cake and snuggle kittens, because i was skimming my shit to find the captivating parts and came up sorely empty. for cereal, my profile pictures include both me eating a giant birthday cake with my tits out and me wearing a brace and clutching three tiny kittens who were straining against my hand to breathe. fucking gross. good thing i like mf doom.

because that's one of the things he said drew him to me. whew! so i guess writing an exhaustive list of all my mixtape jams wasn't a total waste after all. i assume most dudes just scroll through hundreds of faces looking for the ones attached to the skinniest bodies and the giantest boobs. and that suits me fine. what other choice do i have? this whole "i met him at a bar" or "i met him at the grocery store" thing is a fucking farce. can we just admit that already? NO ONE meets outrageously excellent dudes on the fucking train. outrageously shit-scented winos? absolutely. hot, gainfully-employed gentlemen with more than one brain cell rolling around between their ears? GODDAMNED NEVER.

elisse and i went out last thursday to get drunk and watch the bears game, and the dude who seated us was fucking HANDSOME. and he was all inked up and complimenting me on my tattoos. which i am surprised he noticed considering that his eyes were halfway down elisse's fucking shirt. in case you've forgotten, I AM THE WINGMAN CHAMPION. seriously, if you want a dude i will break my ass to get that motherfucker for you. all you have to do is point. and i would never do any shady shit like saying, "hey man, my boring friend over there is too much of a pussy to come over and tell you herself that she wants to bear your future children" or slipping him my name and number when you think i'm giving him yours. i give a stellar endorsement and then cop them digits. and i have a 100% success rate, except in the case of rachel, who let me do all the goddamned leg work before deciding she was too chickenshit to holler. pfffft.

anyway, i went to the bathroom at halftime to shit out those ill-advised hot wings i should have stayed away from (what the fuck is my goddamned problem?!), and dude took my absence as an opportunity to go over to our table and drop the lamest pickup line i have EVER HEARD on my girl. "i'm surprised you girls are in here tonight. i didn't know ladies like football. isn't this a man's game?" first of all, BLARF you misogynist dickbag. and second, were you born yesterday? where better to meet a virile slab of brisket than a sports bar on game night? you know that nothing makes my ears cry with sad more than the sound of a dude talking, but there's ZERO chance of that when the game's on, so we can sit and ogle undisturbed. then when the clock runs out and they're all fired up and passionately sweaty, filled with the thrill of victory (or deflated from the agony of defeat and easily preyed upon), it's our turn to dive in and get us some. DUH. unfortunately for me the only dudes in my line of vision was a table full of eighteen-year-olds and a dude with down's syndrome who was wearing a fanny pack and a pair of foam headphones attached to a yellow cassette walkman.

elisse, unfazed by lameness apparently, started gushing about him as soon as my tender asshole and i slid back into the booth. "did you get his number?" i asked, and she replied, "i'm too shy." FUCK, DUDE. why do you bitches always make everything so fucking hard?! a reasonably attractive waiter can't pause too long when taking my drink order before i'm getting my phone out like, "want to get drinks sometime this week...? what time is your shift over tonight?" strike while the goddamned iron is HOT, jerks. i was on the toilet for at least fifteen minutes; those assholes should've been married and on their second kid by the time i got back. but no, little miss coy just batted her darling eyelashes and fiddled with her drink straw looking cute instead of circling her prey and going in for the kill. well good thing she brought little miss desperate and aggressive with her. i had a couple more shots of liquid courage, and when we were leaving i was like, "hey hostess server person, my friend wants to bang you." and, lo and behold, HE wanted to bang HER, too! just like in a fairy tale! no good deed goes unpunished, because as soon as i put another notch in my wingman belt i had to stand there like a jagoff pretending to pay attention to the postgame interviews while they giggled and cooed and exchanged cell phone numbers. after a while of looking like an idiot and sweating inside my fucking coat i finally conceded defeat and sat down in one of the vacant chairs at corky's empty table. "hey, what are you listening to, the alvin and the chipmunks soundtrack? do you come here often? can i buy you a milk?"


well we can call this bedtime story "snow black and the seven illegitimate children," because it turns out that that piece of shit has multiple children in multiple states, and that's not the kind of dude you can let put his penis in you, children. he is a big bad wolf in sheep's clothing. one who thinks inviting you back to the place he works to sit at the bar and drink watered-down daquiris constitutes a "date."

and while i was bummed for her (not really, i HATE when my single ladies get manfriends! who am i going to dress up in wigs and leotards and dance in empty studios with?!??!??!!!), it made me feel a little bit better about trying to find someone to eat the leftovers i'm too snooty to touch on the internet. because THESE are the dudes you meet in real life. dudes whose meager income is rendered further obsolete by the number of garnishments placed on it. and not that you can't meet a dude with seven offspring online, but there's usually a have kids/want kids box you can check. and maybe this is profiling, but whenever a black dude checks the "have kids" box i rarely respond. unless he's abandoned them or whatever. i don't fucking like competition. i'm just playing. it's damned near impossible to find black people of either gender to fuck on who haven't shit out or shot out a goddamned baby; i have accepted that it often just comes with the territory. sometimes that shit even works in my favor, when a dude is like "i've had all the kids i'm ever going to have" and i wave my bloody tampon at him and yell, "me, too!"


frankly, i'm more worried about things like "does he read books?" and "can he tie his shoes without help?" a few years ago i went out with a dude who had an "L" and an "R" written in marker on the inside soles of his shoes. I AM NOT KIDDING. and you know where i met that mongoloid? IN PUBLIC. i only saw that shit because i met him at his apartment before dinner and his velcro shoes were lined up in the hallway near the door. i don't even know what possessed me to look in his shoes, but when i did i was like, "why is this my life?" and almost started crying. it took everything in my power to continue the date. i mean, he was gentle and sweet and i was going through a bad time. ultimately i was happy that i'd done so and hadn't let my prejudice blind me to a possible romance. that is until the dim-witted girl at the register left the toy out of his happy meal and he lost his mind in the middle of mcdonalds. i mean, who throws their apple slices on the floor and has a temper tantrum?! seriously!

so this girl i know did speed dating and loved that shit, and i let her talk me into doing it, too. because WHAT THE FUCK ELSE AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? watching television, heating up frozen burritos from trader joes, and cursing out my fantasy football roster, that's what. i signed up for the shit for two reasons: 1 you bitches need something to read about and 2 there are so many super-specific types of speed dating: fat chicks, old chicks, ugly chicks; bald dudes, smelly dudes, toothless dudes. whatever your pleasure. when corey was telling me about it i cut her off and was like, "NOT DOING THAT." she's an adorable blonde munchkin who is obsessed with grey's anatomy, and i was thinking to myself that there is no dude on earth who would be interested in both fucking her and my big, salty, tenacious d listening ass. then she broke it down to me that she had done jewish speed dating and that there are all of these sub-categories from which you can choose. l'chaim!


as soon as i registered i was filled with dread. how am i supposed to distill all of this awesome down to three minutes? one and a half minutes if i give him the chance to say his piece?! holy balls. what the fuck am i supposed to say? but then again maybe the point of this whole thing isn't what you say, it's just to figure out whether or not you want to fuck someone. because the internet tells lies, but sitting across from a bitch for three minutes is all truth. at least as far as your penis and eyeballs are concerned. did you know that bitches are still putting headshots from nine years ago on their dating profiles?! that's so foul! unless you have a time machine and i can go back and have sex with you five chins ago, why would you do that?! assholes. all my pictures are what i really fucking look like. and maybe that's why i've been as yet unsuccessful, but at least i'm not a fucking liar.

i called cara's mean ass because i know she is the only bitch salty enough to endure the trauma of this with her sense of humor intact and made her sign up for this silly business, too. also, she is one of my few single friends who has a working checking account (this bullshit ain't cheap!) and would be willing to subject herself to something this dumb without the promise of a relatively decent payoff. unless you consider my cracking jokes a sufficient payoff. (you shouldn't.) we immediately started hatching a plan. the way this works is totally different than i'd expected: you get your three minutes to make an impression, move along to fourteen other numbered participants, then mingle and get drunk afterward. no numbers are exchanged. then when you get home you go online and choose the people who made your junk tingly, then they're sent an email saying that you're interested. or they don't receive an email and they hang themselves from the shower rod. whatevs.

i never give a fuck about what i goddamned wear, but i pulled out my strappy riding boots and dropped a black dress of at the cleaners on my way to work this morning, so obviously i mean business. blog business, as i'm only embarking on this to get a few laughs. or because i'm a masochist who enjoys crushing disappointment. i think it'll be interesting to gauge the various reactions i'm going to get. my crazy hair and nerdy glasses and aggressive body art are a lot to throw at an unsuspecting dude all at once. but at least i'm trying! i told cara i was going to wear my pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved t-shirt and she just about had a heart attack then made me promise to put in at least a little bit of effort. SO I AM.

now i have to just work on my introductory paragraph. i should probably sit in my room with a stopwatch and rehearse, but i am the WORST at remembering important shit at crucial moments. guaranteed i'll write something amazing, take the time to memorize it, and when dude sits down i'll freeze up and say, "me like you mucho. should we fuck now?"


it's also gross when dudes try to come up with something witty and unexpected but it comes off as cheesy and totally staged. for instance, corey told me that one dude asked, "what's your favorite kind of cereal?" as his opening line. BLA-ARF. shit like that dumbfounds me. if you really want to appear all fresh and cool you should do what i do and ask, "what's the biggest shit you've ever taken?" THAT line is a goddamned winner. it catches them off guard every single time. it's embarrassing to listen to manufactured, bullet point biographies. i feel like i should conference in my friends and he should have a power point accompaniment.

the most awkward part of this whole thing is not only do you have the uncertainty that goes along with knowing that someone you're into is into a handful of other someone elses, but if you go to one of these things with a friend it's quite possible that one of the other ladies he's into (figuratively, LITERALLY) is your homegirl. i was talking to my friend, who'd gone speed dating with a couple of her friends, and she was telling me how she and her girl had dates with the same dude on different nights. and they were planning to compare notes after the dates! i'm sorry, lovers, but i'm not sure that i'm that progressive. if i like a dude and he likes me but he also likes cara, GUARANTEED when i go out with him i'm going to be all, "i don't know if you could tell by looking at her, but cara was just diagnosed with AIDS." i fight dirty, goddamn it. and, like i said before, i hate competition. because i don't like having to work that hard! whenever a dude is like "let's keep it open," i always agree, because i like options, but then i'm always secretly like, "aw, man! i'm too lazy to try to be better than his other potential girlfriends!"


and boy, AM I. i prefer to lie and cheat and steal to get what i want. earning things honestly is honestly overrated. i don't like breaking a sweat just to keep some irritating dude entertained. BLARF. that's why i like when i can introduce this blog into the relationship. "i know you've already seen my butthole, but have i told you that i write comedy?" then i can impress both him and all you jerks in one fell swoop. i didn't even wait with this new crush. i'm fucking tired, man, so i dropped my defenses and directed him here. and he read that piece about my period clot that i mistook for the son of man. he liked it, and he wasn't offended. which means that maybe sooner rather than later i can get him in a dog collar and a pair of leather underwear and make him call me "mommy." (or maybe not. he's reading this.)

anyway, i'll keep you posted on how things go, and whether or not i get the runs in the middle of some boring dude's prepared speech. and if all else fails i got corky's number. although it's a firefly his grandma gave him and he said he can only use it in an emergency. maybe his mom will let us have a play date? i'll bring the pudding snacks and apple juice. yowza.