It was the winter of 2001 and I was a puberty-stricken teenager just coming to the comprehension that girls did not in fact have cooties. It was right after New Year’s when my good friend Y. Jazz Junkie asked me to accompany him on a blind-double date with two very ravishing, very gorgeous, very eye-candy-esque females from our rival, Bonneville High School. To help a brother out, I agreed and was soon knocking on the door of a random town house in the middle of the woods.
Y. Jazz Junkie’s prediction rang true as the physically appealing Venetian Laker opened the door.
“Hi, I’m Robin the Witch Turley. Nice to meet you.” She said. (For the record, Robin the Witch Turley is her blogalias. I was going to give her another one, but there are too many four-letter words to choose from.)
As I attempted to introduce myself she cut me off, attacking my fashion.
“You do not look good in green. I’m just sayin’. I think you should have picked a different shirt to wear tonight.” Robin the Witch Turley accused me.
Um…Thank you? I guess? Her next response was a jab at my eye color. Confused at the mismatch of tinting.
“It’s like your shirt doesn’t match your eyes.” She said. “But then again, I can’t figure out what color they are either. They almost look like the color of… vomit. Yeah, that fits them.”
Ok, well, I’m going to take off now so you can get on your broom and fly around with your pointed hat and wart on your nose.
As we walked out to my truck, I proceeded to open her door, the gentlemanly thing to do. Something that all men should do for women, when as I started up the truck, her initial response went something like this:
“You drive this P.O.S.? I mean, should we have called AAA to pick us up instead? I bet this won’t even make it to the restaurant.”
Alright, that’s it, I have HAD IT! You can make fun of my ugly green shirt, and my ugly puke eyes, but you will never, NEVER make fun of my dear old ‘Shasta’. The sacred ’92 Nissan pickup that had driven me to Hell and back. How dare you?! At that point I didn’t care if it was Reese Witherspoon in the passenger seat, I wanted out. A.S.A.P.!
As soon as we sat down at the restaurant, the two girls decided that they both needed to use the bathroom. For the record, an enigmatic constant exists that when one woman decides to use the restroom, there must be a simultaneous estrogen creature who needs to use the restroom as well. This includes discussion of the opening drive, and how much action the potential date may be receiving on the doorstep later on. While the Laker curse words were gossiping, the following conversation occurred:
Me: “Dude, I’m not gonna finish this date tonight. This girls a total stuck up jerk.”
Y. Jazz Junkie: “C’mon man, you can’t leave. What am I gonna do then?”
Me: “I don’t care. I’m not gonna pay for her dinner, go see a play, then buy her yogurt afterward. That’s like 30-40 bucks I could be saving. And I’m not gonna waste it on this freak.”
Y. Jazz Junkie: “Alright then, so what are you gonna do?”
Me: “You’ll see. Just go along with whatever I do. It will be classic.”
And with that, the two female fatale’s waltzed out of the restroom and were seated before us. I sat across from Robin the Witch Turley in my ugly green shirt, staring at her with my vomit-stained eyes. Out of nowhere I had a shocking idea that would change my nights outcome and make the evening one of the greatest date stories of all time. The following conversation occurred:
Me: “So, tell her that she looks nice in her shirt, no don’t tell her that, why not? Cause she doesn’t! I think she does. Well what do you know? Plenty! Oh yeah right. I only let you out once in a blue moon! You let me out? Oh no sir. I let you out you pumpkin pie-haircutted freak! Alright fine, just say she has a nice shirt on! Alright! I will!
That’s a nice shirt you have on.”
Robin the Witch Turley: Perplexed/stunned/shocked/WTF look across her face. “Umm…thank you?”
Me: “See, she didn’t even like that compliment. What a jerk. I know. What the heck?”
Awkward blank silence for the next ten minutes.
A few moments later our sizzling fajitas and double bacon cheeseburgers were brought out and served. The following conversation occurred:
Me: “So should I ask her how she likes her food? No! Why would you say such a thing? Well, I’m just trying to make conversation with her. But you never talk about food! Why not? Cause, if you ever bring up food with a girl, she thinks that you think that she’s fat! Well, she does have a little junk in the trunk, I must say. I know, exactly, that could hurt you from getting any action! Well, I don’t care what you say, I’m gonna ask her. Alright, suit yourself!
How’s your burger?”
Robin the Witch Turley: Perplexed/stunned/shocked/WTF/I am scared for my life look across her face. “Umm…good?”
Me: I told you she would feel bad. You are soooo screwing yourself tonight. Oh shutup! No you shutup! Look, only one of us was supposed to be on this date in the first place. Yeah, so why don’t you go home! Jerk!”
Awkward blank silence for the next ten minutes.
As the bill and tip had been collected, we were grabbing our coats and headed out the door to go see some dunce romantic play at the Egyptian Theatre in Ogden when the following conversation occurred:
Me: “You ready to go?”
Robin the Witch Turley: “You know what,” she said grabbing her stomach. “I’m gonna have to take a rain check on this one, I’m not feeling so good.”
Me: “Oh really, you want me to take you home then? I can take her home. Yeah, I think we can take her home. That sounds fun.”
Robin the Witch Turley: “No, that’s fine. I’m just going to call my Mom.” Stepping back in fright.
Me: “Are you sure?”
Robin the Witch Turley: “Yep. You just go ahead without me.”
Me: “Alright, we’ll see ya later. Yep, we’ll both see you later!”
It was at that point when Robin the Witch Turley ran screaming out of the restaurant and I hopped in to Shasta to grab myself a slurpee and catch the tail end of SportsCenter for the evening. I never saw Robin the Witch Turley ever again. Although rumor has it that she spread rumors about my schizophrenic personality all over Bonneville High School, and later on that year a few of the Bonneville Lakers were a little bit apprehensive when they saw me warming up to throw the javelin at a track meet, but so what! I didn’t have to waste my time with a girl who thought I was a steaming pile of cow dung with vomit-coated eyes.
And that kids is how I got out of one of my most epic fail dates ever. One day it might come back to haunt me. But until that day, I will always hold the upper hand to Robin the Witch Turley.
Both of me will.
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