Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The Dinner Date

            Now, y’all know my opinion about dating and what a soul crushing, debased act it is. Every time, we foolishly dare to connect with another person, desperately hoping our skin won’t crawl in disgust as we volley back and forth stale preliminary questions like “What do you do?” and, “So, where are you from?” all night, ad nauseum.
            And this is the ‘adult’ way of doing things.
            Getting to know someone.
            What a crock of shit.
            I’m not saying it’s bad for people to eventually have to go out on dates. Sometimes, especially in our isolating world here in New York City, we must walk this plank and stand before each other as mutual firing squads, to judge and be judged in return.
            Completely forgetting of course, that all good, or at least memorable situations, have come without planning or reason. Think of the last time you hooked up with someone. Let me take a wild stab at how that went down.
            You were at a bar.
            You were drunk.
            A totally random situation appeared; an old flame walked in the door or someone you’ve had a crush on just broke up with their cheating mates and is now hunting for the four-alarm fire revenge fuck. Either way, I can assure you the last time you felt the burn in your blood pump hard was due to a total accident. 
            So let’s say it’s been awhile and horniness is eating away at your skull (and each person’s version of this is different. I have friend named Ole Cunny Bill who complains its ‘been awhile’ after just a week without sex. Some guys got all the luck. Others, like me, can go for months without sex. I am a sexual camel and can store fantasies away during long periods of draught). There’s no lucky situations walking through those bar doors and you realize, sadly, you must yet again face this frightening abyss:
            The Dinner Date.
            Can I first say this? Do not even try to be civilized. Forget the age-old ideas of chivalry or class.
            SKIP DINNER.
            Go right to the drinks. Shots even. The less you learn about that person on the first date will only lend itself to a second one.
            It’s not natural to eat in front of someone you want to fuck unless you’ve already fucked. Before that every sound, gesture and movement will lead to judgment or painful discoveries of seriously nasty things a previous good lay could have potentially forgave for the time being.
            Get them hammered. At least then, any frightening aspects of their personality will bubble to the surface thanks to the truth-telling chemicals in alcohol. Ask your bartender about them. Chances are, the barkeep knows more about the person’s sexual life then they remember after 8 Jager bombs.  
            But if you do insist on being an ‘adult’ and attempt some idea of sophistication and propose a dinner date, or accept one, allow me to paint several nightmare scenarios so when you spot one, tell the date you have to use the restroom and look for the fire exit.         

            BAD EATERS

            I’d like to take a moment and thank my Mother here for curing me of any bad habits I may have let slide into adulthood. She was such a Nazi about eating, I thought this tyrannical rule was unjust and unfair. However, now, and only now just what she was trying to teach me becomes crystal clear.
            Bad Eaters. These people are the most disgusting, stomach churning types of folk to ever live. Let me give some examples.
            Chewing with their mouth open. Especially when they are speaking. I can’t tear my eyes away from the crunched up torn strips of beef and salad on your gums when you tell me how much you love to work with children. You could be Mother Teresa and I wouldn’t even hear it. All I hear is the chomping down and the squish of food between your smacking lips. Also, what is with those people who drive their forks and knives hard into plates? Have you experienced this? They stab down, the metal screeching against the porcelain plate, like the dish owes them money. It’ll make your ears bleed. How about the super thirsty person? Chugging water, the little sops echoing out the glass, is equally gross. You just back from the desert? What the fuck is your problem? Picking their teeth as they listen to you talk. The list goes on and on. I actually morally judge these people. Since the majority of our time with a partner is eating and fucking, you had better make sure at least one of them is done without a mess.       

            This is an unpardonable offense. Especially if you work in food service. Nothing makes me want to stab people more then when they mistreat wait staff, especially if I want to be naked with someone. I’m on the side of the working class. I served front of house for ten years before graduating to bartending.
            I once had some drinks with a very pretty Russian girl named Tatyana or Svetlana or one of those names with a heavy Iron Curtain ring to it. We had several Martini’s already on 1st Avenue, wandered into Tompkins Square Park, groping each other wet lipped beside a couple of homeless junkies, and stumbled inebriated into Flea Market (my favorite French restaurant in the Village). I was in full desire to kiss every part of her skin when I got her home.
            Suddenly, she hails, in that loud Russian conquering way.
            “Waiter! Two Martini’s.”
            All the passion crept out my pores and my penis began to crawl back inside itself.
            She turned and smiled.
            “What?” She says, her voice thick with accent.
            I try to pretend I don’t see her coldly ignoring the server already irritated by her yelling across the room for a drink. I try to ignore how crass she speaks to the help. I think I even saw her snap at a busboy for bread.
            My service industry alarm system started to ring…loud.
            Keep in mind people, just because they are serving you doesn’t make them your servants. I don’t know what the Bolsheviks teach their kids about manners, but I got the fuck out of there and left 'ole Ivanka to her horrid, self important ways.           

            THE SILENT TYPE
            Here is a fact:
            Being shy after 25 means you’re an asshole.
            My heart goes out to the emotionally awkward, but if you can’t have a decent dialogue after 25, it doesn’t mean you’re a well meaning, quiet person, it means either you suffer from some undiagnosed psychological issue or you’ve watched to many emo-art films mistaking coyness for the illusion of mystery. I don’t know where some of these people learned their social skills from, but trying to get them to speak like regular people is like pulling teeth.
            Reticence is not interesting. You know what’s interesting?
            To Your Fellow Human.
            I get it. Maybe you don’t like your date that much.
            If you don’t like someone, don’t go out with them. Save everyone’s time. I’ve heard this from both sexes. “Oh, I just had to see…” See what, motherfucker? You don’t have to have lean to close to smell shit, right? If you have an inkling that you’re don't dig this person, leave it at that. Nature gave you instincts for a reason. And just because you couldn’t start a fire or change a tire to save your life, doesn’t mean you are completely out of the race. 
            Please allow Social Darwinism to run its course.       
            Till next time!

This chick is not mysterious, she's just a bitch.

This is a sex drive killer. Gross!
Keep the eating where it counts.

This kid, when you're not around, thinks about ways to kill rude people slowly with silverware. 

1 comment:

  1. OMG, thank god you've never seen me eat! I'm a monster...