A Date. A Big, Fat, Stinkin’ Date.

27 Jan

Sometimes I go on dates. These things–these dates–are at the same time fantastic, wonderizing, fantastiful, and grandiosious. [Editor’s Note: Those last three words don’t exist. I even checked the “IronKyle’s Fancy Words” dictionary you gave me when I came on last March.] [Kyle’s Note: Did you check the back?] [Editor’s Note: The back? I thought dictionaries were in alphabetical order.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh. Hm. Well, add those three. To the back.]

This past weekend, or maybe the weekend before that, I can’t remember [peyote], I went on a date. I went on a date with a woman.

This woman.

That’s where I picked her up from. That’s not her house, though. The location in that image there is what I call my “proving grounds.” She’s standing next to the sex room. You see, I’m trying to breed champions. You think I’m going to breed a champion with some chick I meet up with at a Starbucks? You think I’m going to breed a champion with some woman that needs to be picked up in the palatial, soft surroundings of a home? You think wrong.

The probing [Editor’s Redaction] proving grounds are located off an industrial road in Denton, Texas. I tell my date that my car is on the fritz, and that I need her to come pick me up. She comes to pick me up, hat in hand (I also tell her to bring her favorite hat.), and begins the arduous process of finding what would resemble a front door. I then jump out of the shadows, scare her, steal her hat (to show her that nothing is forever) and run away to hide. I’m wearing a disguise (glasses) and I’m moving very fast, so she thinks she’s just been robbed by a stranger. She’s lost, afraid, confused, and hopefully, violently vengeful.

I leave a gun behind with a single round left in the chamber. I then make a mannequin of myself sleeping on a bench. If the woman approaches the mannequin and shoots it, we go on our date. If the woman uses the gun as a threatening object to get her hat back, we go on a slightly less romantic date. If she uses the gun to take her own life, we go to the quarry, where she rests forever.

I never get to see the results of Annemarie’s test, though, as she saw a cat in some trash, forgot all about her hat, and spent an hour or so chasing the stray around the and singing to herself.

Eventually, the cat runs into a gutter, she gives up, and we get in the car to begin discussing our plans for the evening.

Avatar?” I ask, smiling one of my most potently charming smiles–my Dennis Quaid smile.

So potent.

“Why do you look like a fifty year old man right now?” Annemarie asks, edging herself to the far end of her seat.

“Because I’m fifty,” I say, not at all thinking before I speak.

“What?”

“Let’s go see Avatar,” I say.

The movie theater’s parking lot resembles a used car dealership. The place is packed–absolutely packed.

“This place is packed,” Annemarie says.

“Absolutely packed,” I say, winking. Annemarie gives me a look that promises thousands of hand jobs to come. “Thousands of them,” I say, just above a whisper–still looking deeply into Annemarie’s eyes. She reaches into her purse.

“I have mace,” she says.

We buy our tickets. Our tickets are cheap-ish.

“I’ve been waiting forever to see this movie!” Annemarie says, jubilant.

We walk into the theater and find our seats. As packed as the theater was, it wasn’t too hard to find two seats for me and my yellow-haired she-devil.

The movie goes well. With a 165 minute run time, I had plenty of time to inch my hand from my lap, to the armrest, to her knee, to her thigh, to her boob, then back to my lap to start the whole thing over again. Each boob-cycle takes approximately 45 minutes.

For dinner, we went to a local Chinese or Japanese or Korean or Vietnamese place called “Mr. Chopsticks.” The food there is good, the atmosphere enjoyable, but it can get a little expensive for my taste (There is no dollar menu). So, here, I employ another stage of testing for my date–charity. When the bill comes, I look it over, set it down and reach into my pocket for my wallet. As I’m taking it out, I fumble it and drop my wallet on the ground.

“Oh, crap,” I say. I lift it up, dust it off and then open and close it, inspecting it. I start to look increasingly frustrated, then put it down on the table. “It’s broken. The damn thing is broken. I’m going to have to get a new one!” I sigh loudly and lean back in my seat, exasperated.

“You can’t j–” Annemarie says, reaching across the table for my wallet. I quickly snatch the wallet and shove it into my pocket.

“AH! It’s just so broken.” I shrug my shoulders and make an “I don’t know” gesture. “Do you mind just paying this once? It’d really help me out. I have to buy a new wallet.”

“Uh, yea, I guess,” Annemarie says. Good. Good.

She pays. She pays well.

The drive home is filled with witty conversation by me. I’m very witty. Annemarie does a fantastic job of sitting quietly and laughing at the appropriate times. She’s so good at that. We reach her house and I walk her to her door. There’s that momentary pause when we’re both trying to decide if a kiss is in order. I decide that one is. She decides that I smell like soy sauce and nervousness. I lean in and she ducks to her left, skillfully.

She laughs and raises her hands in a karate-like defense pose. “Quick reflexes.” I love a woman with quick reflexes. I’m so excited. I want to see the reflexes in action again. I just can’t wait. I draw my hand back and bring it forward with terrible speed. She’s nowhere near fast enough to duck it and a punch her square in the head. She falls over limply and lands in a bush.

“Crap.” I say. “Crap crap crap.” I shake my head, looking down at her unconscious frame lying in the shrubs. “Your reflexes are crap, Annemarie.” I pick her up, put her in a sitting position, kiss two of my fingers and lay them to rest on her forehead. “Goodbye, you beautiful bitch,” I say. Then I get in my car and go home to blog about my experience.

The End.


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One Response to “A Date. A Big, Fat, Stinkin’ Date.”

  1. Sandra Cullen January 27, 2010 at 5:45 pm #

    Who is this uppity little bitch? She’s fuckin’ dead.

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