I said I'd talk about this months ago, and I haven't yet. And I'm sorry for that.
Yes, most of you have heard about this. In fact, I think that pretty much my entire readership has heard about this. But, hey, I'm going to tell the story again, because it's sorta darkly funny.
Yep. That's right. I'm about to tell you the story of...
Some of you may think I'm kidding. I mean, I didn't get punched in the face by a possibly ex-boyfriend, so it's got that going for it. But, really, that's not the fault of the date (well, not necessarily). That's the boyfriend working out some issues that he should maybe be talking out after several stiff drinks in a setting in which he doesn't have to drive and has a lovely person to whom he can talk.
Anyhoo, this is a pretty impressive look at how terrible I am at seeing giant red flags throughout a date that was epically bad solely due to the date itself and not extrinsic factors like ex-boyfriends with strong right hooks.
But before we get to that, we need some background. Several weeks prior to the date in question, this girl and I are paired up in a (rather bullshit) assignment. The joys of med school. But, hey, we drive out to the assignment together, there's some playful banter, and she seems nice enough. We both even like Archer!
This girl seems pretty great. We start texting after the assignment, and she continues to seem pretty great. (Note: Firefox continues to think that "texting" is not a real word. You, dear browser, can take your red squiggly lines and go run them across your motherboard or whatever it is that browsers use. I don't know computers. Maybe it's a config page? I don't know.) After a few days, I figure that, yes, the time is ripe for me to begin maneuvers towards the goal of a date. My friend Anne Bonny is doing a murder mystery dinner theater show. She's about to leave town. It's one of her last shows. And, oh, what's this, somehow I've "come into a couple of tickets" (my preferred method of saying, "I BOUGHT TICKETS AND YOU SHOULD COME WITH ME," as it involves less shouting). She agrees, and I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. Things are coming together pretty well.
This ends the background.
The evening arrives, and I head towards her place to pick her up so we can go to the theater. Like you do. Well, we're both running a bit behind schedule, and when I get to her place, she's still getting ready. I play with her absolutely adorable golden retriever (who was just all up on me), and she emerges. She says, "Man, I really need a Red Bull." I have several thoughts about this. One is, "Well, it's your house, and there's nothing I can or should do about it. By all means, have a Red Bull!" Another is, "Wow, she must have had a long day. By all means, she should have a Red Bull!" Still another is, "Red Bull is sorta gross, but it gets the job done, and she must enjoy it. By all means, have a Red Bull!"
She grabs a cup. Well, I don't know why she couldn't just use the can. The can would probably fit into a cupholder better, and that cup is awfully big. I don't know that it'll fit into a cuphold-
Oh.
She reaches for the vodka. In hindsight, this should have been the first red flag. But since I'm only 700 words in, I think we all know that I didn't see it.
But, hey, we head that way, chatting somewhat along the way, and get to the theater. Yeah, we're a bit late, but Anne Bonny has saved us a table right up front and some scripts. Yeah, this is one of those shows that has a bit of audience participation. Only in the second act, though- Acts 1 and 3 are your conventional sit quietly and enjoy the show sort of theater. They even say, "We're sure you're funny, but keep the heckling to yourself and let the actors do their job," before the show. A veteran of SEVERAL high school theater productions (and the token science roommate in the apartment of theater majors during my senior year in college), I tend to wonder why they would even need to give this warning. I mean, you don't talk in the theater. Special hell and all that. Isn't that right, Shepherd?
Well, we're not twenty minutes into the production when my date starts... interacting with the actors. That doesn't give a fully accurate picture of the situation. See, they're riffing a bit around the audience, since our tables are pretty much the stage in this venue. It's all quite funny. And then she starts trying to get in on the fun.
I am mortified. I keep expecting the actors to give a cutting remark and put her in her place (i.e., the audience), and then we can all move on. They don't. Act 1 ends.
My date starts trying to take drink orders from audience members. She starts accosting them on their way to the bathroom.
Anne Bonny comes up to my table and says something to the effect of, "Hey, man, could you get your date to, um, shut up?" I apologize effusively, explaining that it's our first date, and if I'd had any idea of how much she would violate basic tenets of theater etiquette, I would not have brought her. Anne Bonny's boss comes up to my table and says something to the effect of, "Hey, man, I don't really know you, but could you get your date to, um, shut up?" Anne Bonny and I both apologize effusively, explaining that it's our first date, and if I'd had any idea of how much she would bring massive amounts of insanity to this humble venue, I would not have brought her. Apologies are going all around. My date isn't really here for any of this. I don't think it has occurred to me that any of these problems have anything to do with the vodka red bull or the red wine we've had at the theater.
The problem is not solved.
Act 2 starts. Crowd participation, right? Well, SCRIPTED crowd participation. I'm psyched. My date tries to interject again. I just do a firm grab of the upper arm with a bit of a "No" look on my face. She responds by, a.) pouting, and b.) saying that she's too "high energy" for me.
Let's pause for a moment. I've done male beauty pageants. I've gotten up in front of people and spoken scripted gibberish (quite sexually at times, at that). I wear a Speedo for funsies!
Saying you're too "high energy" for me had better mean you're one of those man-child-techno-god-cloud-things from Star Trek. These are some strong words you're coming up with to try to excuse talking in the theater.
I whisper to her that they had asked me to get her to stop talking in the theater, which is something they had brought up in the ground rules before the show.
Well, she continues to pout. She ignores her whole script. This almost means that I have to leave my part out. (Thankfully, the actor prompts his way into my part, since there is some plot relevant info that comes up in my lines. I have quite a ball as an utter stoner in a room of tourists.) She makes a paper airplane (which she claims she wasn't going to throw) that I take away to prevent her from possibly throwing, what with her being so high energy and all. She takes the paper airplane and begins to tear it up. (The paper airplane was our menu, by the way. I hope they didn't want it back.)
I'm having a reasonably good time as long as I ignore what my date is doing. It was, of course, a wonderful show, and I was glad to get to see it. We talked to the cast a little bit after the show, my date apologized (somewhat slurredly- I don't think I had put together how much she had had to drink yet at this point in the evening).
Now, I know what you're probably thinking: "Hey, man, that wasn't an incredibly terrible date. You were sort of a dick to a free spirit, bro, and then you got pissed that she was hurt? How dare you insult such a delicate flower thusly!" And to that I say, "Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHA. HAHAHAHAAHA."
See, it's adorable that you think that. It's not entirely wrong, at this point, either. See, this is (as I said before) part 1. It's late, and I need to get some sleep, so this post doesn't really embody all the things that were awful about this date. Most of those come in tomorrow's post. This is like the first hour of a horror movie where we're setting up the character dynamics and giving you some anticipatory scares. We're right around where the quarterback and the cheerleader kick the nerd out of the tent to engage in some premarital hankie pankie. Tomorrow is where both of them die in creative in vaguely karmic ways, there's blood everywhere, and the nerd finally recited that ancient Gypsy campfire curse that sent the killer back to whatever hellish place from whence it came... OR DID HE!
Yes, most of you have heard about this. In fact, I think that pretty much my entire readership has heard about this. But, hey, I'm going to tell the story again, because it's sorta darkly funny.
 |
| Wacky fun! |
The Worst Date Ever: PART 1 (of hopefully 2)
Some of you may think I'm kidding. I mean, I didn't get punched in the face by a possibly ex-boyfriend, so it's got that going for it. But, really, that's not the fault of the date (well, not necessarily). That's the boyfriend working out some issues that he should maybe be talking out after several stiff drinks in a setting in which he doesn't have to drive and has a lovely person to whom he can talk.
 |
| Like, um, this fellow? Strawberries help with the healing? |
Anyhoo, this is a pretty impressive look at how terrible I am at seeing giant red flags throughout a date that was epically bad solely due to the date itself and not extrinsic factors like ex-boyfriends with strong right hooks.
But before we get to that, we need some background. Several weeks prior to the date in question, this girl and I are paired up in a (rather bullshit) assignment. The joys of med school. But, hey, we drive out to the assignment together, there's some playful banter, and she seems nice enough. We both even like Archer!
 |
| Wrong show, Simon. This is why we can't ever go back to Arizona. |
This girl seems pretty great. We start texting after the assignment, and she continues to seem pretty great. (Note: Firefox continues to think that "texting" is not a real word. You, dear browser, can take your red squiggly lines and go run them across your motherboard or whatever it is that browsers use. I don't know computers. Maybe it's a config page? I don't know.) After a few days, I figure that, yes, the time is ripe for me to begin maneuvers towards the goal of a date. My friend Anne Bonny is doing a murder mystery dinner theater show. She's about to leave town. It's one of her last shows. And, oh, what's this, somehow I've "come into a couple of tickets" (my preferred method of saying, "I BOUGHT TICKETS AND YOU SHOULD COME WITH ME," as it involves less shouting). She agrees, and I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. Things are coming together pretty well.
 |
| Goooooooooooood... |
This ends the background.
The evening arrives, and I head towards her place to pick her up so we can go to the theater. Like you do. Well, we're both running a bit behind schedule, and when I get to her place, she's still getting ready. I play with her absolutely adorable golden retriever (who was just all up on me), and she emerges. She says, "Man, I really need a Red Bull." I have several thoughts about this. One is, "Well, it's your house, and there's nothing I can or should do about it. By all means, have a Red Bull!" Another is, "Wow, she must have had a long day. By all means, she should have a Red Bull!" Still another is, "Red Bull is sorta gross, but it gets the job done, and she must enjoy it. By all means, have a Red Bull!"
 |
| It gives you wings. In her case, it was one of those literal Bible angels. |
She grabs a cup. Well, I don't know why she couldn't just use the can. The can would probably fit into a cupholder better, and that cup is awfully big. I don't know that it'll fit into a cuphold-
Oh.
She reaches for the vodka. In hindsight, this should have been the first red flag. But since I'm only 700 words in, I think we all know that I didn't see it.
But, hey, we head that way, chatting somewhat along the way, and get to the theater. Yeah, we're a bit late, but Anne Bonny has saved us a table right up front and some scripts. Yeah, this is one of those shows that has a bit of audience participation. Only in the second act, though- Acts 1 and 3 are your conventional sit quietly and enjoy the show sort of theater. They even say, "We're sure you're funny, but keep the heckling to yourself and let the actors do their job," before the show. A veteran of SEVERAL high school theater productions (and the token science roommate in the apartment of theater majors during my senior year in college), I tend to wonder why they would even need to give this warning. I mean, you don't talk in the theater. Special hell and all that. Isn't that right, Shepherd?
 |
| "You're goddamned right." |
I am mortified. I keep expecting the actors to give a cutting remark and put her in her place (i.e., the audience), and then we can all move on. They don't. Act 1 ends.
My date starts trying to take drink orders from audience members. She starts accosting them on their way to the bathroom.
 |
| I am not prepared for this sort of anarchy. |
The problem is not solved.
Act 2 starts. Crowd participation, right? Well, SCRIPTED crowd participation. I'm psyched. My date tries to interject again. I just do a firm grab of the upper arm with a bit of a "No" look on my face. She responds by, a.) pouting, and b.) saying that she's too "high energy" for me.
Let's pause for a moment. I've done male beauty pageants. I've gotten up in front of people and spoken scripted gibberish (quite sexually at times, at that). I wear a Speedo for funsies!
 |
| And participate in limbo contests in it! It's, um, for the aerodynamics? |
Saying you're too "high energy" for me had better mean you're one of those man-child-techno-god-cloud-things from Star Trek. These are some strong words you're coming up with to try to excuse talking in the theater.
I whisper to her that they had asked me to get her to stop talking in the theater, which is something they had brought up in the ground rules before the show.
Well, she continues to pout. She ignores her whole script. This almost means that I have to leave my part out. (Thankfully, the actor prompts his way into my part, since there is some plot relevant info that comes up in my lines. I have quite a ball as an utter stoner in a room of tourists.) She makes a paper airplane (which she claims she wasn't going to throw) that I take away to prevent her from possibly throwing, what with her being so high energy and all. She takes the paper airplane and begins to tear it up. (The paper airplane was our menu, by the way. I hope they didn't want it back.)
I'm having a reasonably good time as long as I ignore what my date is doing. It was, of course, a wonderful show, and I was glad to get to see it. We talked to the cast a little bit after the show, my date apologized (somewhat slurredly- I don't think I had put together how much she had had to drink yet at this point in the evening).
Now, I know what you're probably thinking: "Hey, man, that wasn't an incredibly terrible date. You were sort of a dick to a free spirit, bro, and then you got pissed that she was hurt? How dare you insult such a delicate flower thusly!" And to that I say, "Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHA. HAHAHAHAAHA."
See, it's adorable that you think that. It's not entirely wrong, at this point, either. See, this is (as I said before) part 1. It's late, and I need to get some sleep, so this post doesn't really embody all the things that were awful about this date. Most of those come in tomorrow's post. This is like the first hour of a horror movie where we're setting up the character dynamics and giving you some anticipatory scares. We're right around where the quarterback and the cheerleader kick the nerd out of the tent to engage in some premarital hankie pankie. Tomorrow is where both of them die in creative in vaguely karmic ways, there's blood everywhere, and the nerd finally recited that ancient Gypsy campfire curse that sent the killer back to whatever hellish place from whence it came... OR DID HE!
 |
| Not if there's going to be thirty sequels he didn't. |
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