WINNER: The Very Worst Date in America!
We received some phenomenally crazy, funny and out-there weird submissions in our Search for the Very Worst Date in America contest. Picking just one was a tough, tough task. Amongst the tales drunken madness, bizarre behavior and good old lies, this one stood out for us as especially bad. Congratulations to our winner for the best Worst!
Do you agree with your winning choice? Yes? No? You can tell us and choose who would have been your winner. We will be posting submissions that made our top ten list in the coming two weeks. All you have to do is vote for the story you think is the Very Worst Date in America (for now at least) by rating the story when it appears. The highest rated story will receive a secret bonus prize. We will announce the second prize winner on March 1, 2010. We look forward to your votes and comments. Thanks to all who submitted!
THE WINNING ENTRY
His name was T. He lived in Southern California, but was in my town for a month. We met at a club. He said he was ex-military, an engineer, working on flood maps and river restoration. Picture a good-looking, muscular, articulate guy with a job that implied love of the environment. A perfect package it seemed to me. He was with other similar military-looking guys. My friends pronounced him “hot.” We danced for hours and talked over the loud music of the club.
Before I left, he asked for my number, and said he’d call the next day. We made plans to meet for drinks at his hotel bar, then were going to grab dinner at a nearby restaurant. When I arrived, he was wearing dark wash jeans that fit him very well, nice shoes and a tight white T-shirt, like an undershirt. He said he had not had the time to iron his shirt, and he had to go back upstairs to his room to do so. I thought it odd, but he seemed genuine. Before he headed up, he introduced me to his friends and left me in the bar with them. These were not the same friends from the club, and they were not at all like him. While T was one of those clean-cut military gentlemen who said “yes ma’am, no ma’am,” these guys seemed sketchy in their saggy pants, gold chains, sideways hats. I was a little surprised but I was polite and made small talk. T was gone for a really long time.
One of his friends started hitting on me, but became distracted when we heard shots from the direction of the parking lot. Sirens followed. I decided that I had had enough. I was a little afraid to go outside, but figured I was safer outside with the police than I was inside with his creepy friends. As I exited the building, I saw T, handcuffed and being loaded into a police car. He was still wearing the white undershirt. Although I was about 10 feet away I don’t think he saw me, and I snuck by quickly. He obviously had not gone upstairs to iron his shirt, but had instead gone outside and got into (what I later saw on the news) was a gang-related shooting. His friends sounded like a bunch of 13-year-olds, saying things like “BOOM!” and were high-fiving each other and jumping around. I speed-walked to my car, with the sound of one of his friends calling after me. I did not turn around. T never called me again, and I do not know what happened to him. Perhaps he used his one phone call for his lawyer?
