Wednesday, November 3, 2010

some dumb asshole stood me up.

"if i said 'i only drink top shelf liquor' to you, what would you think that meant?" he asked.

holy shit i fucking HATE talking to assholes. "is that a joke? are you kidding?"


"no, i'm not," he said in all seriousness. "i want to know what that means to you."

i sighed and sat down on my bed, un-muting the television and turning it all the way up in the hopes that bill maher would drown this idiot out. "if a gentleman said that to me," i sighed, "i would think he was a pretentious asshole."


sometimes i hate talking on the fucking phone. especially to a dude i don't know with whom it's too premature to have aural sex. the phone is horrible because you can't fucking DO anything while trapped in a telephone conversation. you can't watch tv or dance around to a hot jam while someone is blathering on in your ear, you just have to sit there and be a good listener. i'm all for scandalous gossip calls or guess who i just got fucked by calls, but other than that? YAWN. dudes suck on the phone because they often do other things while talking, and as interesting as you think it is for me to listen to you shout across the room to your homie trust me, IT AIN'T. also, some dudes think talking on the phone before you've hung out equals a date, which means when you actually do drag his broke ass out to a bar he thinks he gets to fuck you afterward. you know, because you listened in as he got the high score on madden 2011. you know, you're already close and shit. pfffft. i like to hustle a dude off the phone and out in fucking public. why would i waste a bunch of my anytime minutes talking to a dude who i'll find out in person is five inches shorter and five times gnarlier than he appeared on the internet? you don't get to cyrano ME, you sonofabitch. no sir. let me see what i'm working with. "maybe you don't understand what i'm getting at? what is 'top shelf liquor'?"

i knew what he was doing, and i definitely knew what he was "getting at," because i'm incredibly familiar with this specific breed of ASSHOLE. motherfuckers who think wearing suits and ordering macallan 18 at the bar makes them taye diggs or some shit. BLARF. "top shelf liquor is premium, higher quality, more expensive liquor. so named because they are often kept on the top shelf of the bar." i want you to know i was rolling my eyes SO HARD as i said that. what a fucking cocksucker. "do you often administer the hoodrat SAT before going out with a woman?"

he laughed because, in addition to being an asshole, he's obviously stupid. "i'm sorry, but the last date i went on i told the woman i only order top shelf liquor, and she had no idea what that meant. what a dumbass! i was really embarrassed for her, and i didn't ask her out again. so i had to find out if this conversation was worth continuing." aha!

let's pause here for a second and make a couple points. 1 speaking negatively about people you've dated in the past to someone whose booty cheeks you haven't yet gotten to slap is fucking gross and makes you look lame, particularly when it isn't funny. as a matter of fact, most things people say to one another are mostly fucking gross because they aren't funny. you know what you should talk about on the phone to someone you want to stick your fucking dick in? SOMETHING HILARIOUS. followed by ALL OF THE MOST AWESOME SHIT YOU'RE INTO, one right after the other. you know, all the cool shit that'll hopefully make a broad overlook the fact that you don't have your own apartment. 2 my standards get lower and lower by the second, so i might not be the best judge, but isn't "does she know what top shelf liquor is?" just a little bit outfuckingrageous?! it's worth mentioning that he hadn't yet asked what, if anything, i do for a living. or what kind of music. i like or whether or not i like it from behind. again, my priorities might be different, but i'd be thrilled as shit if a dude had no idea where my fancy beer comes from.

"i just hate when a woman really thinks she's doing something because she orders a fucking HEINEKEN at the bar. man, that ain't shit. i have superior tastes. i mean, everything i like has to be upper echelon. i only like the finer things." groan.

helen keller snickered and mouthed the word "DOUCHEBAG!" before running to her empty food bowl. what a bitch. anyway, to keep my eyes from rolling out of my fucking skull by this point i had walked into the kitchen and sat on the floor in front of the open refriegerator, contemplating for half a second before deciding to have lemon cake frosting and a beer for dinner. "so i'm fucking IN LOVE WITH YOU for knowing that," he said, expecting me to blush or giggle or swoon or whatever. "not to put too fine a point on it, but could you give me an example?"


is this dude fucking serious? i almost dropped my frosting spoon! but my vagina insisted i play along because his profile picture was excruciatingly hot. "well," i said slowly, as i would to a toddler, "i like vodka. so if i were ordering TOP SHELF vodka, i would order a vodka soda, made with belvedere or chopin."

helen, sensing my depleted state, seized the opportunity to jump into the refrigerator and start chewing on the thigh of a rotisserie chicken carcass i had put away without wrapping the week before. i swatted her with a package of baby broccoli. "bitch, get out of here!" i hissed. "stop eating that!"


"stop talking to that moist ass dude," she shot back before going back to her business with the chicken.

"i'm trying to find you a father, you ungrateful fucker." i slammed the door in her face, rattling all the expired salad dressings inside.

"what's that?" he asked. "what's vodka soda?"


now that took me aback. "um, vodka with soda?" i'm not easily confused, but mister upper echelon was throwing me for a loop.

"what is SODA?" isn't it funny when stupid people shout at you like you're hearing impaired when the real problem is that they are thinking impaired? in case you've forgotten, this dude who dumped what i'm sure was a perfectly likeable woman because she didn't know about pretentious bourgeosie spirits had to ask me WHAT THE FUCK GODDAMNED CLUB SODA IS.

in case you didn't already know, this is what sucks about trying to get laid in the modern age. dumb motherfuckers think they're smart and smart motherfuckers are already fucking someone boring and horrible. in what universe is it cool that i have to entertain this idiot just to try to get fucked properly one or two times? and maybe get a few free vodka sodas?! "club soda is carbonated water," i said again in my kindergarten voice. "water with bubbles."


no shame in his game. "oh. that sounds disgusting." i bet.

i cracked open a bottom shelf high life. "can i tell you something without offending you too badly?" i asked. whenever someone says that you know they're just asking for your permission to take a dump all over you, don't you? that's why my answer is always a resounding NO. i soldiered on before he could stop me. "it's obvious to me, already, that i am vastly smarter than you are. if you need standardized test proof i can get it for you, but i got a 32 on my ACT and a 1520 on my SAT. and if you ask me any more inane questions i will tear your scrotum off when i meet you." you know why you can talk to a dude like that? BECAUSE HE WILL FUCK YOU ANYWAY. a woman would slam the phone down and cry into her cake frosting, but dudes? never.

"what kind of beer do you drink?"

sigh. and they never fucking learn. "every kind. but if i'm slumming i'll drink blue moon or high life, and if there's money in my bank account i drink warsteiner or allagash white."


finer things expressed his relief that i hadn't said anything dumb or embarrassing, you know, like heineken. then he offered up his own suggestion. "have you ever heard of leinenkugel?"

"what the fuck did you just say?!"
i blurted, incredulous.

"what the fuck did he just say?!" helen burst out of the fridge, a mangled and dessicated chicken leg dangling from her mouth.

"that shit is made in WISCONSIN," i sputtered. "that's what you consider upscale beer?! you can get that shit in the grocery store."


i used to date this dude who was fancy for real, not this pretend shit, and he would never touch ANYTHING that came from a conventional grocery store. he did his shopping at foodstuffs and fox and obel; farmer's markets and all those little frou frou places that charge nineteen dollars for a loaf of artisan bread or whatever. the first time i was at his place and he asked me if i wanted a voss still i had no idea WHAT THE FUCK HE WAS TALKING ABOUT. so i stood there like an idiot and said "no" then almost collapsed from dehydration two hours later. bet your sweet ass i know what that is NOW. and i'm a huge snob, too, but i at least keep that shit well-hidden. the first time spanks and i went to dinner he ordered a GODDAMNED APPLE MARTINI. and i spent two years with that dude. see? i'm fucking TOLERANT.

if you're wondering why i continued this wretched conversation the answer is simple: you whores. if i don't get into shit and make shit happen this blog is going to devolve into a daily poop diary. and i know you'd really love that, but i think you'd like it better if i were writing about some hot dude's veiny wang? I WOULD. you know i'm a wholehearted believer that if you have sex with just one dude (even a dude who drinks LEINENKUGEL), the penis floodgates OPEN UP and hot dicks just start falling out of the fucking sky. for serious, when i'm getting laid i have to beat dudes off with a stick (take a minute to get the joke). now during this dry spell i'm thinking about paying for it. just to make sure my vagina hasn't broken from lack of use, like an old car.

because i'm trying to break the cycle i agreed to go out with finer things upon my return from san diego. mostly because I'M BORED and he's 6'3" with five black belts. yowser. "i really like you, sam. i can't wait to meet you. by the way, how would you describe your personal style?"


"moist!" helen shouted from inside the refrigerator.

"um, upscale vagrant?" how the fuck should i know what to call someone who wears clothes that could be mistaken for pajamas 100% of the time?! most days i look like i could have slept in a refrigerator box the night before, and that's just the way i fucking like it. "why?"

"well, i consider myself something of a fashion plate, and i don't want to be overdressed. you know, i don't want to show up in a suit if you're wearing jeans."


so i already knew that this wasn't mister sam. i mean, come on. with all that fruity top shelf talk? BLARF. but any dude who puts THIS MUCH THOUGHT into what he wears on a date? i'd rather be dead than spend too much time with a dude like this. dudes like this never think anything you do is good enough. nothing. and i'd rather gouge my eyes out with tweezers than let a self-described "fashion plate" criticize anything about me. including my plastic shoes. but i thought i might be able to deal with him long enough to squeeze in a little backdoor action and get my dick karma back on track. "wear what you want, homie. we're not going to great america. we don't have to match."


"have a good trip! i'm going to plan an AMAZING date for when you come back. seriously, i'm going to gaze into your eyes and shit."

helen climbed out of the fridge with a package of boursin and a bottle of campari. "if you fuck this dude i will NEVER FORGIVE YOU," she spat, then went to clean her butthole on my pillow.

i texted him upon my return, anxious to find out what an AMAZING DATE sounds like. no one has ever planned SHIT for me. not to say that i haven't been to some fabulous places, but they were all typically at my suggestion. and i'm not salty, if a dude planned some romantic stroll in the park with a picnic i would turn up my nose and remind him that i don't fucking eat outside, and then i'd say something snotty that insinuated he might be gay. here is the text i received in return: "i thought we might walk around belmont harbor for a while."
for those of you who don't remember, or don't live in our much-lauded city of wind, last tuesday was the day this goddamned town looked like the beginning of the fucking WIZARD OF OZ. the sky was black at two in the afternoon, gale force winds, cold as balls, and this genius thought it might be a good idea to WALK AROUND THE LAKE? try again.

after much back and forth (god, i sort of hate texting, too) we decided on a bar near my house. and if you know me then you know where, because it takes me thirty seconds to get there and it's dark enough that any stains on my clothing will likely go unnoticed. i went home after work and watched the entire celtics-heat game and part of the laker game that came on after it before i realized that finer things was TOTALLY FUCKING LATE. just as i was about to take my bra off (that's how you know my day is over) and go to bed he texted "i'm here."

i walked in the bar and immediately gasped when i saw a dude who kind of looked like finer things yet was an entire foot shorter than i'd been expecting. i was preparing my "i have diarrhea and i have to leave right this minute" speech when that dude left with an even shorter lady. i stared after them, bemused, then decided that finer things must be fixing his makeup in the bathroom or whatever, because there were seven people in there and six of them were bitches. i got a fancy TOP SHELF drink and sat at the table in the darkest corner, trying to come up with a funny opener that wouldn't make me seem totally fucking weird. a few minutes later i thought, "this is strange" and texted to see where he might be. there are a bunch of bars near me (that's why i live where i do, of course) and i thought maybe he decided to ignore both the address and directions i'd given. shockingly, i was wrong. i will transcribe, from my cell phone, the rest of the evening.

"i'm at train."


"cool. walk east."

"i don't know which way is east."


SERIOUSLY?! "the lake is east. you can see the lake, and the bar, from the train. follow the addresses. or ask someone."

"you expect me to just ask some stranger on the street? I DON'T DO THAT. i was hoping you'd come get me."


"is the dude who gave me the liquor test really asking me to walk HALF A BLOCK to pick him up? after 10 at night?! you're out of you're fucking MIND. i took my coat off and i have a drink."

"i think it would be common courtesy. don't you?"


as a matter of fact i do NOT. let me interject here for one second. DUDES, this is quite possibly the least sexy thing you could EVER DO. asking a broad to walk somewhere to meet you? just so she could walk you back to the place she was already at?! no, thank you. pick up your skirt, grab your balls, and get yourself wherever you need to go.

when i didn't respond i got this: "i can't believe you would have me out here with prostitutes and panhandlers and shit. come get me!"

at this point i was on TOP SHELF drink number two, and feeling loose. AND MEAN. "what a pussy. i thought you had black belts? what, are you worried about scuffing your fancy shoes? i thought you were going to dress down?" ahahahahaha.

a few minutes later: "you're seriously going to leave me here?"

i would never, and i mean NEVER, be able to forgive myself if i walked away from a delicious alcoholic beverage, out into the cold, dark night, to walk half a block to pick up an upper echelon dude who didn't even have a car and was apparently too scared of the "panhandlers and prostitutes" (pfffft) littering my neighborhood streets to walk his bitch ass down to the bar. or maybe he just couldn't count and didn't want to admit that he couldn't figure out the address. either way, if i'd gone to get him, and continued our courtship, every time he said anything or did anything or pulled his dick out of his pants i would think, "i had to go pick this asshole UP" and it would kill me a little bit inside. EVERY TIME. and even though there might have been a hot lay at the end of those ten steps (seriously, it's so close!) i couldn't bring myself to do it.

"i guess i'm going to pass and go home. i can't believe i traveled three hours to see you" yeah right "and you're just going to leave me stranded here. how could you not come pick me up?"

i ordered strong drink number three. "I DON'T DO THAT."

then i walked home and made some drunken calls, first to arizona, then to draper (i really talked for SO LONG on his voicemail), and then to ginger who, although she was disgusted by the moisture of the situation, contemplated whether or not she would have gone to get him. and she said she would have. fuck, man. maybe if i could take my ass off my shoulders, i might have a chance of getting it spanked. boo fucking hoo.