Do Jew Wanna Date? | Get The Man A Fork

Due to pressure from MULTIPLE sources (okay just Hannah) I will divert from my chronological order of relationships, as fun as that is for everyone, and give a few standout horrifying dates. LeBaron and Mormon set the stage for my lifelong inability to pick the “normal” ones, but if you find me a normal one please put him in a box and ship him to me, so I can build a science lab in my basement and study his ass.

The first time I came home from a date and thought “I need to be writing this stuff DOWN” was what I thought to be the absolute crème de la crème of bad dates. But even that guy needs to take some lessons from tonight’s winner. However I will give Mr. Runner Up his 2.6 seconds of fame.

I met girlfriends for dinner, left to meet #2 for a drink, and actually drove BACK across town to my friends just to tell them how bad the date was. I met him at Champps (this should be a lesson, as bad date #3 was also a Champps aficionado) and within the first 4 minutes he had asked me every single question you can cover in a two-hour period. He knew my nephews’ names, where I’d gone to elementary school, how long I wore braces (five years; my orthodontist still has a restraining order against me). Ten minutes into the date, we were discussing his irritable bowel syndrome and recent colonoscopy. Thirty minutes in I went to the restroom, begged a waitress to send our waiter over with the check, and spent another 20 minutes trying to hold back tears while #2 brought up every possible conversation piece in his repertoire, including his grandmother’s cataracts and his love of Doritos. Cool Ranch, NOT Nacho Cheese.

pasta-handsOn to the big winner: tonight’s date. If you’ve seen the Bodyguard, you are familiar with Bad Date #1. He is the white-haired stalker of Whitney Houston’s character, who stares a lot and breathes heavily and seems like he belongs in a special home. This is where the easily offended should tune out, but I exaggerate NOT. My date tonight could barely speak (I had to order for him), he ate his pasta with his hands and I’m pretty sure the waiter thought I was his aide. I spent the whole meal (34 minutes, a new record) blabbing on about nothing, like I would with a small child, and I think I even brought up how amazing it was that the waiter could write his name upside-down on our tablecloth in crayon. I was waiting for his mother to pick him up after the meal, but I wouldn’t know because as soon as we got outside he turned and ran away.

I wish I were making this up.