Live Blogging ---

--- A first and last date.

Old, but still funny.. like an 80 year old clown

This past weekend I somehow scored a date with this chick who is WAY out of my league, so I thought I would document it by “live blogging” the entire thing. The plan is to bring my laptop along, and give you (and her) the juice as it happens. I know what you’re thinking: “Why didn’t I think of that?” or more likely: “You are a retard.” Well, I’m doing it anyway.

Just for the record before I start, nothing about this seems like a bad idea at all and I’m 100% sure it won’t backfire in any way. Let’s do it.

7:30 p.m. - I thought I told her I’d pick her up at 7:00, but I decide to be “fashionably late.” What I didn’t realize was that I’d taken “fashionably late” to a new level, as I was supposed to pick her up at 6:00. LAST Friday.

7:37 p.m. - She says she’s in the middle of doing “pilates,” but I don’t see any airplanes anywhere. She is a liar. After a few minutes of persuasion, I finally convince her to bury the hatchet and come out even though she’s still a little pissed. (Hopefully at the end of the night I’ll get to “bury the hatchet” too.)

7:45 p.m. - Alright we’re in the car on the way to the restaurant. I put in Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell. This is my dating litmus test. If a chick doesn’t appreciate rock perfection, she doesn’t deserve to appreciate my superior wang. Unless she’s at least a D-cup or really, really smoking hot. Actually, the only criteria I have is that she’s female, and I’m even a little lenient on that.

7:57 p.m. - We just got to the restaurant, a nice little Italian place a friend told me about called Olive Garden. It’s supposed to be pretty good. They gave me one of those little light-up buzzers and then I sat down three feet from them. I guess in case I decide to do a couple of warm-up laps around the parking lot, they’ll know where to find me.

8:04 p.m. - She just now asked me why I brought my computer along. As if it wasn’t odd enough that earlier I was typing and driving at the same time. I told her that I had $1000 on the Clippers and I needed to see how they were doing. “You’re funny,” she said.

8:33 p.m. - Got our table. I usually like to flirt with the waitresses a little to keep my dates on their toes, but tonight a tubby guy named Tony will be taking care of us. I tell him he has pretty eyes anyway.

8:40 p.m. – I try to make conversation, but having any intelligent interaction with this girl is like playing “Find the Talent” with Ashlee Simpson and Carrot Top. (She’s dumb.)

9:05 p.m. – Our food just arrived. She ordered some kind of salad. I don’t know if you’ve been to Olive Garden before, but ordering a salad there is like a skinny guy with long hair asking for anal penetration in jail. It’s GOING to happen regardless, except in jail I’m pretty sure “salad” has an entirely different meaning.

9:43 p.m. - Dinner’s over. She just excused herself to “go throw up.” Now I’m not usually a big pro-bulimia guy, but at least she’s honest about it I guess. Wait… I just paid for her meal and she’s just going to puke it up? How disrespectful is that? Should I make her pay for it? There’s no way I’m flushing my mom’s hard-earned money down the toilet like that. Literally.

9:50 p.m. - We just left the restaurant. I couldn’t bring myself to make her pay for her meal. Not to worry, I have a plan to make this little overly-self-conscious regurgitation engineer get her “just desserts.”

9:53 p.m. - For some reason I tell her she can pick the movie. My suggestion: anything but Fever Pitch. Her choice: Fever Pitch. She says: “Jimmy Fallon is funny. And cute.” I say: “And dealing with a couple extra chromosomes.” She doesn’t get it.

10:10 p.m. – Arrived at the movie theater, only for me to realize that I’d “accidentally left my wallet at the restaurant.” She says she’ll take care of it. After tickets, popcorn, a couple of drinks and my mandatory Sour Patch Kids, her grand total came to just over $40 (which is $10 more than I paid for our meals if you’re scoring at home, or even if you’re alone). I rule.

11:45 p.m. - The movie is over, THANK GOD. She says: “Did you LOVE it?” I say: “I can think of a few things I would have rather done with my time.” Like unscrewing a couple burnt-out light bulbs and smashing them into my eye sockets.

(In hindsight, I guess you could get the same effect with normal light bulbs, not just burnt-out ones. Whatever.)

11:57 p.m. - On the way home from the movie, in a last ditch effort to cop a cheap feel, I try Frank Costanza’s “stop short” move, but it goes horribly wrong when I miscalculate the arm angle and she catches the business end of my elbow with her nose. We’re on the way to the hospital now. She isn’t happy. I’m trying to figure out how to get blood out of my new shirt.

12:11 a.m. - I tend to get a little squeamish when dealing with the sick and injured, so I dropped her off at the emergency room. Also, I’m pretty sure at this point in the evening my odds of getting any action are about as good as Michael Jackson ever fathering a human child.

(I think that was the first joke ever that included Michael Jackson and a child in which Michael Jackson did not have sex with said child. MJ likes little boys. There.)

12:28 a.m. - I am now sitting in the hospital parking lot stealing their wireless internet to look at porn. It’s amazing what they’re doing with science these days.

2:01 a.m. - I wake up from a deep sleep to her knocking on the window wearing one of those plastic facemasks that basketball players wear when they break their nose. I don’t know if I should be more embarrassed about the fact that I’m on a date with Bill Laimbeer or that I’d fallen asleep mid-pump, with my pants around my ankles and my penis in my hand.

2:11 a.m. – This has got to be the most awkward car ride of my entire life. Except maybe the time my mom had to come pick me up at school because I’d fallen asleep in the reading loft mid-pump, with my pants around my ankles and my penis in my hand.

2:20 a.m. - I drop her off at her house. She says: “Thanks for like the worst date I’ve ever had, jackass. Don’t call me, EVER.” I say: “You’re fat.”