It just seems my luck that I wait forty years for a blind date, and my utterly clueless coworkers set me up with a woman so enamored of one Richard Bruce Cheney that she had reconstructive surgery to fashion herself into a 90-pound version of her hero. Oddly, this did not instantly dawn on me when she showed up at my cardboard excuse for a door with a hunting rifle slung over her shoulder. She doesn't know the area, I thought. She'll relax once I show her my magic trick with the deviled eggs.
Man, was I wrong.
My idea of going to see Koyaanisqatsi before eating was the first mistake, as she swore loudly all through the bit with the Soviet tanks and wound up shooting me in the leg when I tried to get friendly. After we were kicked out I had to resort to riding around in her lap being I couldn't drive anymore.
Just my luck it was free Long Island Iced Tea night at the Jiffy Lube just before the highway turnoff. The idea was that anyone keeping their car--and somehow the entire world--in tune deserved to get 100% shit-faced as a reward. Oh, there had to be ten cars with drivers whose eyes were as glazed as the simonized metal monsters that rolled over us. I lost count after seven, anyway.
Strangely enough, my companion for the evening didn't say a single off-color word as this was happening. At first I thought she was dead, and tried to reason how I would explain this to my husband, but then a kindly vagrant came over and stood the wheelchair up before making off with it, dislodging the gravel from her throat and ensuring she would live to yodel again. Being we were quite squashed into the gel-and-faux-fleece seat cushion, we were treated to an evening of bum festivities, such as seeing who could piss the furthest after chugging bourbon banana smoothies, and then came a midnight recital of drunken poetry.
"Ah rung up the fat barney with toadlicker and marbles corn tingled," I think one toothless gent was insisting. I nodded along best I could with his tale, hoping that as long as I seemed transfixed my date wouldn't get too frisky. The third SUV to go over her head had dislodged the recent nose job she'd had and I wouldn't even know what I was snogging if I took the chance. As it was the man who stole the wheelchair was having his way with it by a flaming trashcan and I had no intention of sitting in it ever again. So my first blind date ended with us all unwittingly eating a poisoned wild bird from behind the airport. It tasted just like bologna.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
You haven't lived until you're smelling of three strangers' urine.
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2 comments:
Holy Guacamole! And I thought *I* had weird dreams! Whoo, major freakout.
Closest I am to that is one morning Mrs. Wiggy swears she tried to talk to me when I was still asleep and dreaming, and I (allegedly) told her "This part of the exhibit is closed, please return to the tour." I was dreaming at the time of being chased by Mister Peanut downhill through that valley from "The Sound of Music" and his monocle was one of those ninja throwing star things.
But I like yours better.
HAHA, you could've been having one of those psychic visions about Mr. Peanut going on the rampage like that, but I can dig not wanting to be part of the exhibit during dreams like that.
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