One Of My Worst Dating Experiences

Copyright: belchonock

If you’ve been in the dating world for any span of time, I am willing to bet that you have at least one story about a bad dating experience. There have been a few doozies in my dating life, but one in particular was particularly aggravating. I’ve gotten so many laughs from relaying the story about Max that I figured my subscribers would also get a chuckle out of it.

I met Max (and yes, that was his real name) at a Halloween party in 2009 at the Skirball Center on Sepulveda Blvd. While I was at the party, a very nondescript man who was not at all my type approached me, began talking to me, and followed me around. You guessed it, this was Max. He refused to leave my side, cockblocked a number of men who were my type, and just annoyed me to no end. When I decided to leave the party, he hounded me for my phone number, and for some utterly stupid reason, I gave it to him.

Max called me the next day, asking if I was free, to which I replied that I was watching Sunday NFL Football with my roommates. Without hesitation, Max invited himself over, and because I was so distracted by the activity in the house, I relented and gave him my address. When Max showed up at my place, he was empty handed, and promptly asked if we had beer or some other libation he could enjoy. I opened up a bottle of sake and poured two glasses. About 30 minutes after Max showed up, my two roommates stated that they were planning to put some burgers and chicken on the grill, and invited Max and me to join them in consuming the food. Once the food was cooked, the four of us sat in front of the TV, eating, drinking, and watching the game. A big smile broke on Max’s face, and he said, “Wow, this is awesome! I’m getting free food, free booze, and I’m watching football!” which made me cringe and also triggered concerned expressions on both my roommates’ faces.

Once the afternoon game was over, I told Max I had an early day the next day, and thanked him for coming over. Max stated that he would make it up to me the following week by taking me to dinner, to which I reluctantly agreed. Two days later, Max called me and we made plans to meet at a restaurant called Firefly in Studio City that Friday. For those of you who don’t know the restaurant, here is a portion of the current (2022) dinner menu:

Fried heritage chicken with mashed potatoes & gravy, horseradish slaw
and a damn fine buttermilk biscuit (or just as fine GF cornbread for the intolerant)   29 

Potato kugel with king trumpet mushrooms, roasted carrots, tofu creamed spinach and truffled demi   28
Red chile braised pork with crinkly sweet potatoes, collard greens, crispy mushrooms and pepita–cilantro salsa   30

 Zucchini, corn and poblano enchiladas verdes with black beans, romaine, pickled red onions and cashew crema   27

 Moqueca Baiana of rockfish, mussels and scallops with watercress–watermelon radish salad and jasmine rice   31

 Dijon crusted ocean trout filet with seared asparagus, quinoa–pine nut pilaf and sauce gribiche   33

 Baked mac ‘n cheese with cheddar, gruyere and parmesan bread crumbs   12

On Friday, Max and I met at the restaurant and were seated at a lovely al fresco table. The waiter brought menus and took our drink orders, which consisted of two similar mixed drinks on the rocks. Max perused the menu for several minutes, then looked over at me with a dissatisfied facial gesture. I asked him what was wrong, to which he replied, “I just don’t see anything that is grabbing me, ya know? I think I want to see if they can make a burger for me.” Since I wanted to be a good sport, I told him that if the chef was willing to accommodate his request, I would also have a burger. Well, Max got his wish, and we ordered burgers. We also ordered a second round of drinks.

The burgers were delicious, and our conversation flowed better than I thought it would, but since I felt no romantic spark with Max, I just wanted to get through the date without any awkwardness. Then the waiter placed the bill on the table while Max and I were talking about something that made us both laugh. While still laughing, Max picked up the bill, glanced at it, scowled, threw the bill onto the table, and remarked, “Oh, I can’t pay this!” I picked up the bill and saw that the total was $75, and because I wanted to be accommodating, I suggested that we split the bill, to which he agreed.

Two minutes later, Max scowled (this time at me), said “Wait a minute!”, and grabbed the bill. He studied it for a minute, then remarked, “The drink you ordered is $1 more than mine, and you had two of them, which means you owe $2 more than me.” I just sat there, dumbfounded. Was this guy really that cheap? I was so disgusted and so intent on getting out of that restaurant that I told him, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll pay the whole thing.” I proceeded to pay the entire bill plus tip, because Max didn’t even offer to leave the tip.

When we walked to the valet area to pick up our cars, Max said, “I’ll pay your valet fee if you let me come over” to which I replied, “No thank you, keep your $5.” Needless to say, there was no third date with Max, but he continued to call me, begging me to take him with me to Preview Night at the L.A. Auto Show. I had purchased two tickets (at $100 a pop), and mistakenly mentioned that I was going to the event and was waiting to hear back from a friend who said he wanted to join me. Max truly believed that I would have been willing to take him, on MY dime, to the event. I asked him to please stop calling me, and when he refused to leave me alone, I blocked his number.

I’d love to hear about your nightmare dating stories, so please share in the comments!

Ten Words You Need To Stop Misspelling

https://theoatmeal.com/comics/misspelling

https://theoatmeal.com/

Check out Matthew Inman’s amusing blog post which covers ten words he believes people should stop misspelling. I must say that I agree wholeheartedly with Matt regarding the issue of misspelled words. For those who are interested, you can even purchase a poster of the blog post, which could serve as a not-so-subtle reminder to those afflicted with spelling and grammar faults to pay attention.

Funny English Signs In Japan

Here’s a collection of some of the signs I encountered during my visit to Japan in March.  Clearly there is a need for more accurate Japanese to English translation!

This was in Daiso in Sendai

 

Thank goodness Yama No Saru in Sapporo had an English menu for us from which to order!

 

This was in many elevators throughout Japan…watch your fingers!

 

When you want all the shoes in your Miso Ramen…

 

Umbrellas up for grabs…

 

Don’t forget to unrticepticize your hands before handling the pets at the pet store…

 

Freshers??

 

A cozy, comfy cushion for your tush….

 

The best drawstring bag ever, and for 93 cents at Seria…

 

Lastly, the label on the drawstring bag cracked me up too

My Perfect Asswhole

I love this fantastic and hilarious piece which was written by a friend and fellow medical colleague who has requested anonymity.  Enjoy!

**************************************************************

Source: 123rf.com
Image ID : 126524897
Copyright : Richard Villalon

 

I knew a guy who was simply an unequivocally reliable asshole. From day to day, his demeanor varied depending on what he intended to leach out of those around him, but, over the long-haul, he was consistent. Given enough time (and toilet paper), he always proved his assholedness. Some described him as a narcissist—he undoubtedly was—but he was also a class-A (and you can imagine what that A stands for) asshole. 

A friend listened once as I described my acquaintance to another person. I called him a narcissist. My friend, who knew the big brown eye, said, “Nah. He’s just an asshole.” How refreshing is that? Not that one’s ass should be an air freshener; but it’s refreshing when a person just calls something—or someone—as it is. No apologies or feigned political correctness: just unabashed candor. 

Sometimes I think of certain people as having an asshole titer. A titer is an objective measure of concentration. An antibody titer, for example, quantifies the concentration of antibodies in a person’s blood: the higher the titer, the higher the concentration. It’s not speculation or guessing; it’s a measurement, free of judgment. 

A titer might express a person’s exposure to a certain trigger, like hepatitis; or their immunity to an infection, such as mumps. In a broader sense, among those comfortable with the lingo, the word is used more casually. A woman with a high granola titer, for example, has Brillo Pads in her armpits and a particular propensity for tree-huggedness. 

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could measure a person’s asshole titer—an objective measure, that is, of one’s assholery. At present, calling someone an asshole implies judgment: as if we can’t make an objective, unbiased observation. One isn’t questioned or scrutinized for saying Dolly Parton has big breasts, or that Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is tall. They’re just observable facts. One might be judged if they said Gary Coleman was short, but that depends on context and tone. If we’re not being pejorative, it’s just an observation. That’s the way it should be with assholes. We should be able to call them what they are without accusations of being judgmental. And doing so would be a lot easier if we could simply measure one’s asshole titer. 

If we could measure asshole titers, we’d remove guesswork and tiptoeing. We wouldn’t have to pretend everybody’s nice while waiting to find out otherwise. We wouldn’t have to ignore that little warning itch on our ass when we meet someone we know is malevolent, even if they haven’t yet proven it to us. (Believe me, they’ve proven it to others.) A good friend might have an asshole titer of five, but a ninety-five could be kept at arm’s length when sober and avoided altogether on weekends. 

As an aside, for the sake of completeness, we should note that titers are not percentages; they are measures of concentration by way of dilution. They do not stop at one hundred. They can soar into the thousands. We all know a person whose asshole titer rivals the national debt. But, for this discussion, let’s just say that a titer of one hundred is a complete and total asshole—also known as an asswhole (a homonymous designation that only works in print). Notice I didn’t say big asshole, as if size mattered. No. It’s the quality that matters. Over the years, the asshole in my life has proven that repeatedly. He is consistent and accomplished at it. 

Even better than just measuring an asshole titer, what if the number were tattooed on a few foreheads? Just think how much frustration and angst we could avoid. We could enter a room, instantly assess the asses—or the average assholedness of the gathering—and head for the door. Maybe we’d rescue the poor seven at the bar on our way out, but we wouldn’t waste time trying to be nice to the eighty-and-above crowd. They could massage one another’s egos (and wipe one another’s butts, for that matter) while we move on. We’d know up front where to spend our time and what to expect. Wouldn’t that be sweet? 

Some titers are good. Some are bad. It’s not fun, for example, to have an unusually high titer of rheumatoid factor. There’s a cadre of titers one would rather not have at all, like an HIV viral titer. On the other hand, it’s nice to have a high antibody titer against polio, especially in some areas of the world where polio is making a comeback. 

Titers change over time. When I get the measles, my titer shoots up as my immune system pumps out more antibodies. Ten years later, my titer may wane. That’s why the ER doc asks about my tetanus shot. I need a high titer to step on rusty nails and still avoid the lockjaw. The same is true with rabies. 

And that brings us to another idea. Wouldn’t it be great if we could generate an anti-asshole antibody? Now that would be a valuable titer, though the immunization might be a shitty experience. Antibodies gobble stuff up, bind things together, inactivate them, and get rid of them. Perhaps the rabid, rusty assholes would be more tolerable if we just had enough anti-asshole antibodies. 

There are all kinds of assholes. Everybody knows the run-of-the-mill asshole: irascible, obnoxious and temperamental. But there are also specialty assholes: the ones with particularly ironic twists. There are the assholistic health-food nuts, preaching the benefits of sprouts and antioxidants in between their cigarettes. There are the asswholesome hypocrites—mostly politicians and preachers—who are closely related to the assholier-than-thou crowd. They have a penchant for placing themselves on pedestals; so proud of their own humility, they often stumble while patting themselves on their own ass (or, more often, patting someone else’s younger, shapelier ass). 

Twenty years ago, Dennis Leary sang the Asshole Song. It went like this: “I drive really slow in the ultrafast lane | While people behind me are going insane | I’m an asshole | I’m an asshole | I use public toilets and piss on the seat | I walk around in the summertime saying, ‘How about this heat?’ | I’m an asshole | I’m an asshole | Sometimes I park in handicapped spaces | While handicapped people make handicapped faces | I’m an asshole | I’m an asshole.” 

You may not like the words, but you have to admire a guy who owns his assholedness. At least that gives you a chance to acknowledge and avoid. 

Be careful, though. If you avoid polio and its vaccine altogether, you’re vulnerable. You have to be exposed to be immune. That’s why an asshole immunization stinks. On the other hand, you don’t want too many antibodies, or antibodies of the wrong kind. That’s the problem with Lupus, anaphylaxis and multiple myeloma. One needs a balanced exposure to assholes, but the burden of maintaining that balance falls on you. One not-so-endearing quality of assholes is their lack of moderation. Given enough time, they’ll shit on everything. 

Here’s the rub: If we have too many anti-asshole antibodies, we could end up with an assholeless life—and that could be a problem as well. (An imperforate anus is a serious medical problem, but that’s not my point.) I’m talking about the color, texture and variety the assholes bring us, if only to remind us how much we hate them. Yes, assholes are people too—unwiped, perhaps, smelly and pimpled, but people nonetheless. My asshole—a person, separate and distinct from my anus—has brought me a few things; like caution, mistrust, self-preservation and, ironically, a healthy dose of CYA (cover-your-ass). And those, my asshole-hating friends, are necessary elements to surviving and thriving in a world of assholes. 

Perhaps the day will come, as with small pox, when we won’t need anti- asshole antibodies because all the assholes will have been eradicated. Until then, we need to be prepared. We may never be able to measure an asshole titer, but we all have a gestalt about these things. You know when something stinks. Trust your nose. And be grateful for the shit in your life that prepares you to deal with the assholes.