Originally Posted: 2005-04-30 4:04am
Before accepting a night out with me, please read...
I try to be a nice guy. I really believe in the daylight hours, I succeed. But something happens to women after the sun goes down that makes me forget my training and plunge headfirst like an epileptic cliff diver into a shiny lagoon of madness. No, this isn't a hormone thing... at least, not completely.
First, I want you to know that I am a standup guy and will try to remember to open doors for you (if you want), let you order first, and will back you up with your friends or the drunk person at the end of the bar. But I want you to keep something in mind when you yell out the window at the guy who just cut us off trying to park in front of the restaurant or try to scratch the eyes out of the model/kickboxing instructor/Amazon that bumped into you and made you spill your cosmopolitan all over your new Kate Spade. No matter how reserved I am, it is not you that is going to get into a fight, it is me. That guy is going to pull me out of the car and use my retroperotineal organs to break open the nearest parking meter. And the Amazon? You didn't notice her date, Jean-Claude Forgot-to-touch-the-monolith. When I step in, he's going to pound my head like I'm a pinata filled with Ben Franklins and back copies of "Barely Legal" that he lost when the villagers chased him out of the last castle he occupied. You will not get another date because the only thing less attractive than a girl who gets Nikki Hilton drunk and shouts at people is one that asks me for money for dry cleaning to get my hemoglobin out of her tribal skirt.
Next, understand that while I enjoy taking you out, I can't pay for everything. I'm only a student and living on the loans and grants that would barely keep a Dust Bowl-era farmer in Pepsodent. I'm not threatened by a woman that picks up a check any more than I am by the fact that you can bench more than I can. So can Earl Boykins, and he's half your size. If I pay for dinner, even if you only have a feta-salad, you can at least offer me a few quarters for the only parking meter left on this block after last week's date. I'll even squeegee your window for it without asking you to buy a bag of oranges.
Also, when you introduce me to your friends, take it on faith that I don't want to sleep with ALL of them. I asked you out because I want to be out with you. If I wanted to take out your sister, I would have asked her instead. I'm not uncomfortable around your gay male best friend. I like the gay people. I like what they've done to Bravo. I very much admire their ability to irk the living shit out of the religious right like someone just peed in their Cheerio's. But if he hits on me, he's going to find out I'm not interested. Once again, if I wanted to date your friend, I would have asked him instead. I've worked at fucking Walt Disney World. And since fair is fair, I know if he was interested in me, he would have asked me out. And tell your lesbian friend to just shut up. Just because I have a X chromosome doesn't automatically make me the enemy. I like her just fine and would say so over a bourbon and soda. No, I don't think that women are inferior. Yes, I believe in equal wages. And especially no, I'm not trying to "convert" anyone. I may be very good at what I do to my date's naughty bits, I could never compare to the speed and skill with which a lesbian could get a woman to orgasm. Just like the gay friend wasn't trying to get me to play on his team, I don't want anyone reluctantly on the final cut of my roster.
Further, if you are kind enough (or nearsided enough) to grace my bedroom with your presence, I'm just happy that you are there. I will try like a freshman sitcom to please you. But I have a few tradeoffs. I promise not to fall asleep immediately afterwords and make intimate conversation, but you risk pain of expulsion if you utter the phrase, "What are you thinking?" One of the tantric philosophies is that communicating with a god is best done at the moment of orgasm and immediately after because the mind is completely blank. I'm an honest guy, but be prepared for complete, grade-A, Congressional quality bullshit if you pull anything remotely like this. (If you really want to know what is on my mind, please see the part about "I'm just happy that you are there"). And don't bother me with that cliched faux-repulsion over the fact that I leave the toilet seat up. If I see the seat is down and I need it up, I'll put it up. If you need the seat down, put it down... don't call N.O.W. Headquarters or pick up a pen to write Cosmo. Even the dope fiends at the Light Rail look before backing up. If you want the seat always down, FINE, I'll make sure it is ALWAYS down. But be prepared for an ass soaked with more urine than the bathroom floor at Alley Cat's. And, most importantly, don't compare my equipment with anyone else's. Don't tell me it is the biggest you've ever seen, I know that you're lying. And don't tell me it is small, because I know this from the many daily interactions I have had with it since puberty. You don't need to comment on it. Just be glad that it isn't so small that it actually draws matter and photons from nearby Boulder and Castle Rock into it.
Believe it or not, I will call when I say I will. Make sure you do, too. And if you get sick of me like my first grade imaginary friend, call me and let me know that. Otherwise, I will assume that you got into a fight by yourself and are currently undergoing rehabilitation at Craig Hospital, your lesbian friend finally turned you, or you got sucked up with the rest of the debris coming from Boulder and Castle Rock.
No, I don't mind fixing your roommate's computer. I've had that job before.
Yes, I've seen lots of dead people. I've had that job before.
No, I don't watch reality TV. I haven't had that much haldoperidol tonight.
Yes, I actually like John Huges movies. That doesn't take many drinks.
No, I don't look over your shoulder to check sports scores. You shouldn't check the ass of the waiter when I cut my food.
Yes, this diatribe is essential reading before I pick you up. Think of it as one of those voter guides that Postmaster Pete drops off the day before every election: you probably won't read all of it, but if you want to keep your brain from becoming whatever the whale splooge on top of a Filet o' Fish is, you had better at least get the Cliff Notes.