For background noise purposes, I would suggest turning on Pandora and switching to an R & B channel for the duration of this post. For the past hour or so, B.E.P. Longhorn and I have been sitting in our office being serenaded by Jon Secada, George Michael, and Kenny G. Oh the days of sweet 90’s L-word making music. All ruined and trashed by Michael Bolton. I curse your long-haired, pierced ears persona that scarred my early childhood. To think that there was nothing wrong with that name until that no-talent clown became famous and started winning Grammys. (LTT)
The topic of Thursdays contribution to the W.O.D. will be discussed in the most awkward, squirming, dishonest, embarrassed, false sense that I can think of. Something that we all dread. Something that is a fabrication from the opening of the initial front door. Something that Mystery Science Theatre 3000 would heckle and toss popcorn at if they were covering a live feed of it. Yes, I’m talking about the dreaded first date.
The steps of actually getting a girls phone number and formally asking her on a first date have been removed from this post. Not that I didn’t want to discuss them, but that I haven’t found much luck in accomplishing them recently, as seen from yesterdays post. But aside from that, there is something that I would like to state about first dates that makes me want to vomit in putrid disgust.
First dates suck.
Yes, that’s right. I’m talking trash about first dates. You heard me. I hate first dates. I despise first dates. I want to smash first date’s face into a car windshield, and then take its mother, Dorothy Mantooth out for a nice seafood dinner, and never call her again. (LTT)
The reasoning for my abhorrence for the interrogation procedure that takes place over dinner and a movie is because the people that we are on first dates are nothing like the people that we actually are in real life. As sad as it is, we all lie on the first date.
Think about it; when anyone goes on a first date, they are always trying to put their best foot forward, trying to show off their goods, trying to get their possible courting partner to see how amazing that they are on the surface. But there is much more to the iceberg than what meets the eye. We lie, we embellish, we exaggerate, we do anything that we can to woo the other into proving how appealing that we are. Conversations such as this occur:
Blind Date XX: "So, uh, have I uh, told you about how I can juggle flaming chainsaws? Yeah, I picked that up as a hobby while I was serving as a Marine in Bangladesh. That was a pastime of mine while I helped nurture children with cleft palates on the weekends. But that’s all a thing of the past now."
Blind Date XY: "You did all of that?"
Blind Date XX: "Yeah, but that was just over a summer. It’s been awhile since I’ve been back there. What, with me being so busy finding a vaccine for the Ebola virus meanwhile producing, directing, and scoring music for my own online cooking show for homeless people. My time is just consumed I tell you. Add to that my completion of an Executive Magician’s degree from Cambridge University. That’s actually a step higher than a doctorate. Only four people have them."
Blind Date XY: "Only four people?"
Blind Date XX: "Yep, and you’re talking to one of them. My Godfather, Morgan Freeman, was really proud of me for getting it. He took me on his yacht one time to celebrate but we were actually attacked by a 300-foot giant squid that I had to beat down. It’s a good thing my back-to-back state wrestling championships came in handy. Plus that I am a 7th degree Kenpo Black Belt who once put Chuck Norris in a headlock for 8 seconds, that helped too. But then again, I’m just your average joe."
Blind Date XY: "I’m so impressed! Lets make whoopee!"
Cut to the next morning where they both wake up in a putrid single bedroom apartment, and an overweight slob lies next to her in bedding that hasn’t been washed since the Cubs won a World Series. Desperately, the girl is craving a morning-after pill for falling victim to another first-date fiasco. These are the depressing results and consequences of her falling for his act. But that’s the way that it works. We all lie on the first date. We all paint this dishonest depiction of ourselves, deceiving our dates that we have these skills and talents which in all reality are just baggage, ball-and-chained to our ankles.
Why do we have to be so fake? Why is the first couple of months that we pursue a relationship with someone else an entire lie? Why don’t we just come out and admit that we are imperfect people with imperfect lives? I had someone semi-embarrassed text me yesterday that they were a work in progress. To which I replied, we are all works in progress. It’s just sad that on first dates we have to put on a Houdini act in hopes of attracting one another.
Cassius Clay summed this entire propaganda-like perjury process into a simple paragraph recounting how he wanted to find someone who L-worded his true identity. He said:
“When I get that championship, I’m gonna put on my old jeans and get an old hat and grow a beard and I’m gonna walk down an old country road where nobody knows me till I find a pretty little fox who don’t know my name, who just loves me for what I am. And then I’ll take her back to my $250,000 house overlooking my million dollar housing development, and I’ll show her all my Cadillacs and the indoor pool in case it rains, and I’ll tell her, ‘This is yours honey, ‘cause you love me for what I am.’"
Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. I just need to win a heavyweight title first. If not, I’ll just lie to her that I have one on our first date.
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