The Psycho-logist
D was a psychologist. He seemed a little obnoxious, but after some cajoling from an optimistic friend, I agreed to go out with him. The first sign that it would not go well was as we were walking in the restaurant and he says, “Mmm, I like the way that jelly shakes.” Unfortunately, that was the most classy thing he said in the next hour. He called ladies sitting near us “fat whores” and questioned why the dudes with them would stay. He called his past girlfriends “whore cunts” (at this point, the tables next to us were shooting me looks of pity since he was not the quiet sort). He compared his bowel movements to “evacuating after Hurricane Katrina.” He showed me the email he sent to a girl asking her to be his “steady gal”. He then produced the email she sent back to him. Shockingly, her answer was no.
And then….
We started sharing the battle stories of bad dates (in my mind thinking that this was the worst). He told me about a girl he dated who had a colostomy bag. Yes, the bags are gross. It would take one hell of a man to deal with one. He was not that man. He claimed to like her, but, “You know she liked it up the butt.”
I replied, “I’m sorry?”
“Well, she had colon cancer. Only people who take it up the ass get colon cancer.”
“My father had colon cancer last year,” I stated.
“Your dad’s a fag.”
Coughing up my beer through my nose, “Excuse me?”
“Your dad is a homo. He takes it up the ass. Your mom probably watches.”
Before I got arrested for punching him in the face, I decided enough was enough and motioned the waiter for the check.
Out on the street, he said, “Let me take you home, my car is right here.”
“No thanks, I like the walk.”
“It’s okay, I don’t want you walking at night.”
“Oh, it’s totally safe. I walk at night all the time.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not letting you walk home alone.”
“And I’m not getting in your car.” With that, I turned and ran home as fast as I could.
really! I did.
