"This is Why You Can't Get a Date"Submitted by Ducky at 2006-04-06 17:25:36 EDT
Rating: 1.54 on 56 ratings (56 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
My best friend tries to help me with this- she really does- but her lack of tact, mixed with my lack of almost everything, doesn’t mix well. The next examples are for the one guy out there who read the title and clicked on this post thinking that maybe I’d be parting the red sea with some great explanation for him. Sorry dude……looks like we’re both screwed.
I fucking hate the bar. I would rather be sitting in some smoky crap karaoke bar listening to some bad japanese rendition of ‘Peeeelings...nothing more than peeelings...' She takes me to the bar.
Her: Stop fucking crossing your arms. It makes you look unavailable. Loosen up.
Me: I’m afraid to, I might contract something.
Her: Good grief Lauren.
Me trying to loosen up by adopting ‘guy watching NFL playoffs stance’: Better?
Her: Well now you just look like a whore. Stop scowling and cross your legs. This is why you can’t get a date.
The other day we’re at the tire store, a good idea because my front tires are so bald that the metal stripping is beginning to show, and in the soundtrack of my mine, I was getting tired of trying to ignore the rising crescendo of string instruments every time I went around a corner.
Drive to best friends house: time: 9am
Boyfriend of best friend who only tolerates me because he loves her: Morning Lauren.
Me: Hey! Where’s your girlfriend?
Him: Er……in bed.
Now I just have to say that I’m lucky that this girl puts up with as much as she does. I peer into the bedroom and stare at the lump under the pile of blankets. She doesn’t wake up well, but I’ve discovered something……you know that morning citrus burst facial cleanser that is guaranteed to get you happening for the day so you don’t go through your morning groggy? Well, a pillow over the face for about 20 seconds will do EXACTLY the same thing, less the clean face. Man will you be awake. If I could bottle that sensation, I’d make millions, guaranteed. So I leap on top of her and after 15 seconds of muffled screaming, everything goes quiet and as sure as the oven bell rings when the cake is ready to come out, a middle finger emerges from underneath the blankets. SUCCESS! And into the car we go.
The tire guy (I refuse to call him a mechanic) is removing my tires with one of those air compressed ‘‘wheep wheep’’ machines. I love those things. ‘‘Wheep, wheep, wheep, wheep!!’’ and the tire is off. Kick ass. It’s so much better than me struggling with a tire-iron with my father standing over me and shrieking.
Dad: Jesus Christ Lauren!!! A retarded monkey could do this!!!
Me: GOOD. YOU’’LL FIT IN NICELY.
*drops tire-iron and walks away*
Right, so where was I? Okay, so the tire guy is taking off the tires, and I’m standing there, fascinated (it doesn’t take much……cool noises and shiny objects are enough for me). Every time he loosens a bolt, I make a wheeping sound. Why do I do it?
Because I think I might be borderline retarded.
Tire guy: blinks.
Best friend, staring at me, completely un-amused: This is why you can’t get a date.
I spit. She groans. I smile at her.
Her: You’ve got that disgusting grape leaf food crap stuck in your teeth
Me: Probably, and you know, they’re called dolmades btw...they’re actually quite good.
Her: They look and taste like shit. Do me a favour and stop offering them to homeless people when we pass them on the street. It scares them and embarrasses me.
I start looking on my clothing for a piece of loose thread, find one, wrench the side-mirror of my car over so I can see what I’m doing, and dislodge the food. She looks mortified.
Her: You are SOOOOOOO classy
Me, picking said residual grape leaf from my teeth: Thanks babe, I like to think so.