After a few brief contacts and a text or two, I made plans to meet with Mr. DMG at a local mini golf course in the sketchy area of town. This was the alternative to getting drunk at his house, which was his first suggestion and should have been my best clue that things were not going to go well. Now you may ask yourself, why didn't she just tell him to fuck off after that? Well, friends, he was only my second attempt at this whole dating thing, and I hadn't really gotten my "go fuck yourself" sea legs at that point.
Moving on. I pulled into the creepy ass golf course parking lot and stood around waiting for Mr. DMG to arrive. As I relaxed against the wall, I observed Mr. DMG sauntering across the parking lot from the dilapidated apartment complex that overlooks the course. I soon understood why he had chosen the location--he did not have a car. Now look, I'm not anti-non-car men. Some of my favorite people do not drive or own cars. But there is a distinct difference between not owning one because you just don't need it--and not owning one because you probably have 14 DUIs. What, pray tell, would make me think this man was the latter? Calm down, I'm getting there.
Mr. DMG approached, and I quickly realized that his height listing on his profile was, let's just say, aspirational. And by that, I mean he was the same height as my junior high son. Which already made things awkward and said awkwardness was only compounded when he introduced himself not with his name, but this charmer: "I am so fucking drunk." Yeah. Now we know why he doesn't own a car. Anyone who comes drunk to a date is likely in the 14 DUI category. But maybe I'm just a judgmental bitch. Who knows?
Now most chicks would just leave at this point. But I had time to kill and I was amused and mildly curious as to what would happen. Me to him: "Well, I put on pants for this, so we're golfing. Let's go." He looked shocked and probably thought I was desperate to not have dropped his ass cold. Really, I just wanted to write this blog. I'm suffering for your amusement, fans. Don't you love me so?
As we sidled up to the register, the cashier gazed on sympathetically as my date refused to let me pay, and then proceeded to pay the $4 it cost in quarters and come up short. The cashier, clad in a t-shirt that looked like a tuxedo, glanced at me with utter pity as I paid the extra dollar. Have you ever been pitied by a man in a tuxedo t-shirt? It's quite awkward. I smiled toothily at him and made sure to grab blue balls--a subtle message to my date of his future evening.
As we meandered through the windmills and zebras, Mr. DMG told me tall tales that made me wonder if he was insane--and continued to try to get me to go over to his apartment. He even gave me his social security number, which is, as you know, one of the best weapons a woman can use to thwart a rapist. You simply shout that 9-digit number at your assailant and he is instantly rendered impotent as he recalls his credit score of 326. You can then bash his skull in with your purse and run away.
When I informed him of the concept of rape and murder, he helpfully pointed out that I could totally kick his ass (being that he was slightly taller than the Oompa Loompas in the original Chocolate Factory). This, while true, did not entice me for some odd reason. Mostly because I would have felt guilty punching someone the size of a pre-pubescent child. I continued to decline through another round of golf (which I paid for--I really wanted to try the course with the bunker, Mr. DMG was just along for the ride at this point) and finally decided I needed to drink--far away from this mini-wanker--and I called the date done. His last ditch effort to get me to come over was that he had a Wii and we could get drunk and play Mario Kart.
"Sorry," I said. "I only play Xbox." And then I drove away. Because fuck that.
All right, faithful readers. You get to pick my next post. Would you like to hear about Matrix Man, or the guy whose best friend brought his wife on the date while his girlfriend stayed home to babysit. Comment below or I'll just flip a coin.
When I informed him of the concept of rape and murder, he helpfully pointed out that I could totally kick his ass (being that he was slightly taller than the Oompa Loompas in the original Chocolate Factory). This, while true, did not entice me for some odd reason. Mostly because I would have felt guilty punching someone the size of a pre-pubescent child. I continued to decline through another round of golf (which I paid for--I really wanted to try the course with the bunker, Mr. DMG was just along for the ride at this point) and finally decided I needed to drink--far away from this mini-wanker--and I called the date done. His last ditch effort to get me to come over was that he had a Wii and we could get drunk and play Mario Kart.
"Sorry," I said. "I only play Xbox." And then I drove away. Because fuck that.
All right, faithful readers. You get to pick my next post. Would you like to hear about Matrix Man, or the guy whose best friend brought his wife on the date while his girlfriend stayed home to babysit. Comment below or I'll just flip a coin.
