Disclaimer: The following post is a decidedly un-mellow brew of fact, fiction, hyperbole, sheer horror, and self-loathing. The events depicted in this blog, therefore, are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.
If you happen to recognize yourself in any part or passage, well, shame on you.
A few days ago you meet this dude on the internet. You notice that he's looked at your profile, so you, in turn, look at his profile and it's totally empty except for the picture. So you send him a message wondering what is up with him. You hate these guys with empty profiles! Seriously! If you're on there, it's your implied duty to be brave and tell everybody how you're laid back and a good guy (hello! can't we come up with something original, fellas?) and that you like just about any music, except for rap .
So anyway, his is empty, so you're like, "What's up?" and, to your surprise, the guy sends back this novel-length message telling you, exactly, what is up. He's unemployed. He's living in a huge house in the suburbs, but, due to the fact that he's been unemployed for a long while, his electricity's been cut off and since he gave away all his furniture, he sleeps on a sleeping bag in the empty living room. He goes to fast-food joints to get his wifi. Why, you didn't even know that for the price of a Value Meal, you could surf to your heart's content! He's badly injured because he's been hit by a car on his $1500. mountain bike. His dad lives down the street but refuses to lend him a dime, for unspecified reasons.
Ah. Well. That's all interesting. Still, though, you've been seeing a passel of down-and-out types lately. One's unemployed and living at home. One's making shit for pay as a temp for a major oil company and sees no end in sight. One finds joy in potted meat products. Oh, you could be all snobby on this subject, but chances are you won't want to have much to do with any of them after a week or so, and who cares if a dude has a job if you're just, hopefully, going to be addressing one thing? You have, after all, completely bailed on the idea of meeting someone you might actually like...
But therein lies the rub. No pun intended. Poverty and pinheadedness seem to go hand in hand these days. But hope springs eternal. You agree to go out with this guy. After all, he looks kind of cute in his profile photo in a big high school jock kind of way. And though he regales you with tales of woe, he does it in a remarkably amusing fashion! Why not go out with this dope?
So you plan to meet at a Mexican restaurant. He shows up complaining that he couldn't find the place. It was far. He likes the suburbs. He's a suburb kind of guy!
You are definitely not a suburb kind of guy.
And this guy--typical--doesn't look like his profile picture. Why are these lugheads always thinking that they can post photos where they had more hair and get away with it? You balk. Between the khaki shorts with pleats (NO FUCKING PLEATS, GENTLEMEN--EVER), Bruno Magli loafers with (thankfully, no socks, although the combo still strikes you as dreadful), and a tucked in tee shirt (do all the goddamned guys outside the loop get together and decide that tucking their tee shirts in is a good look?), all you can think is, "Wow. Congratulations. You just made 43 look like the new 54..."
Still, for God knows what reason, he seems kind of funny. He looks you up and down and says, "48, huh?"
You say, "Huh?"
"You're 48."
"Yeah," you say, "It's on my profile."
"Man," he says, eyeing your legs. "You look good for 48."
You laugh. You do not tell him that he looks like shit for 43.
"Do I look like my photo?" he asks. "Am I what you expected?"
"No," you say.
"I thought you'd look like you do," he says. "But you look better. Man. 48."
"I'm pretty sure I told you how old I was."
"Yeah, no, for sure. You did. It's just. Well. Damn. 48."
You've heard this before--the part about looking better than your profile. You're not very photogenic.
At dinner, a cheap Mexican place, you're having a pretty good time. You both worked in the restaurant and bar business for a long time, so there's always that to laugh about. And although you don't find this guy attractive one little bit, you're still having fun. But then he starts talking about his old neighborhood in a Dallas suburb. About how it's gone to pot, due to a certain minority.
You clear your throat. Oh, no! The "N" word is coming! You can feel it! You can handle almost anything but the "N" word! As you feel the pressure mounting, you throw your rather large cloth dinner napkin over your head and cover your face.
"What the hell are you doing?" he says.
"We can't talk about this," you say. "I won't take this off of my head until you agree not to pursue this topic."
He agrees. The napkin comes off of your head. He then, for whatever reason, tells you that Glenn Beck is right. About everything. You do a giant spit-take with your jumbo limonada.
Still, for some reason, you're still laughing. This is the funniest train wreck you've been involved in in some time. The next topic of conversation goes, roughly, as follows:
"So," he says, "I'm 43 and I've never been married."
"You mentioned that." You look around. Do people understand just how deeply you understand your folly this evening? "I don't know if I want to get married again."
"You don't?"
"I dunno. Not right now, for sure."
"But you're 48!"
"I think we've established that."
"And you're good looking."
"So you say."
"Well," he says, "You're not gonna want some old fat guy."
"You are correct, sir."
"That's all you're gonna get, cuz guys look like that when they're 55."
"I don't know," you say. "My ex is 57, and he's quite handsome and in great shape. Surely he can't be the only one."
"You're gonna want a younger guy."
"Yeah?"
"Well, you're 48."
"Yeah?" For some reason, this conversation is still amusing.
"Well, you'd better get on it, cuz a younger guy won't want you."
"Because I'm 48."
"Yeah."
He gets up and goes to the bathroom and you decide to check your phone messages, as your phone's been ringing. You call voicemail. The first message is from the bathtub refinisher wanting to set up a time to deliver. The second is your friend Roxanne, confirming lunch. The third is a long, garbled thing. You're about to hang up when you recognize the voice of your date. The conversation he's having with two men, presumably in a fast-food restaurant, is garbled, but you can pick out a few things: "internet dating, man!", "tap that ass", and "yeah, can you believe it? 48?"
By the time he returns from the men's room, you're practically purple with mirth. Have you laughed this much in the past six months? You're leaned over the side of your rustic painted wooden chair with the woven rope seat, trying not to vomit.
"What's so funny?" he says, sitting down.
Gasping, you hand him your Iphone. He presses it to his face to listen.
"Man," he says, unfazed, "I gotta watch that butt-dialing from now on."
You're laughing too hard to say, "Indeed!"
At the end of the evening, you say goodbye. He puts his arm around you and tries to give you a kiss.
"Oh, for God's sake," you say. "Really? Come on!"
Still, as you're walking away, you can't stop laughing.
Was that fun? Or what?
Or What?
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