Those are the three words that best describe my all-time worst date. I stumbled upon this Web site about other people’s dates from hell and instantly knew what the topic of my next post should be. Be prepared, folks. My life is a series of uniquely embarassing moments strung together in rapid succession. Judge for yourself.
A little background: I met “Jason” while playing beer pong at a house party. Clearly the activity of choice when trying to meet quality men. In all honesty he had a delicious body and a decent face (I mean, 3 games of pong in anyway.) Long story short he asked for my number and we decided to go out. I really didn’t know a thing about him except that he was a beer pong sensai with a southern accent. Meow.
He tells me we can do anything I want for our date. No you’re just saying that. No–anything he insists. OK, fine. I want to go to the Cleveland Museum of Art for the Modern Masters exhibit. Can you tell where this is going? See a bit of ominous foreshadowing?

He picks me up at my apartment. We get in his car (the kind that isn’t really nice but for some reason the guy thinks it’s a Porsche. Dude it’s a 1991 T-top, get over yourself.) As we hit I-77 he procedes to tell me how many speeding tickets he’s accumulated–10.
Don’t they take away licenses for that?? Not in the state that he’s from. Whatever I don’t buy that he’s really had 10 tickets. No state would allow that many tickets for a 21-year-old. Wrong thing to say. He decides to prove it by trying to kill me getting up to 112 on 77 north. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Please slow down.
He “accidentally” grabs my inner thigh instead of the gear shift. How convenient. Then he gets us lost– so damn lost that by the time we find the museum it’s getting ready to close.
The guards let us in because they feel bad for me (I can only assume because I was on a date with this jackass.) Enter the first room of the exhibit. Ho-ly shitballs. Rodin’s Thinker is dead ahead, staring me down. I actually squeal with glee. “What is it, like, famous or something?” the fool asks. Come again? YES it is famous, it’s The Thinker for God’s sake.

He asks me to take a picture of him with the sculpture on his camera phone. And before I can mutter “WTF,” Prince Charming is climbing onto its marble frame. Sirens and alarms are going off inside the museum. Security and the curator run in. I have to explain that Duncey McStupidface didn’t know any better and beg them not to kick us out.
“What the Hell was that???” He doesn’t see “why everyone got so mad.” Umm, because it’s effing Rodin. You cannot just touch famous works of art. He decides to occupy himself by singing and dancing to JT’s Future Sex Lovesounds CD. You brought your iPod. Fantastic. Occupy yourself while the adults look around.
He dances his way through four other galleries until we come to the Monet room. He decides he wants to give art another go. After insulting my favorite painter, we move onto Piccaso’s blue period.

He says they all look sad. Hallelujah, even fools can understand a little something about art. Then he touches one. Alarms again. Me apologizing again. Us almost getting kicked out again.
We get the hell out of the museum and are back on the road. He starts telling stories about his friends back home. Said stories are peppered with the n-word. I’m boiling. “Could you not use that word?” I ask. “What? N*****?” Oh my God he said it again. “Uh, yes! Hi, this is Ohio. AKA north of the Mason-Dixon line. And it’s 2007. That whole War of Northern Aggression is over. It’s just ignorant.”
Pit stop at Ruby Tuesdays. Shoot me in the face. I order the most onion laden thing on the menu. Hint, hint–don’t try anything creeper. He procedes to eat the food off my plate. I’m ominously twirling the steak knife in my fingers. Back home to Kent.
Super Shmuck invites himself back into my apartment. He plops down on my futon and begins to tell me what an amazing athlete he is. This many championships and that many awards, and I so could give two shits. He asks if I played any sports. Nine years of softball and four years of competitive cheerleading, aah thank you. “Wow. I never pegged you for the lesbian type.”
OK, get out. “Wow it’s getting really late and I don’t think I feel so good . Yah my roomate had the flu (lies) and I’m feeling kinda weird. You better go. Seriously, GO.” Slam the door in his face.
And the text from him two minutes later: I really wasn’t expecting our night to end that way
Oh really? Between the the inappropriate touching, racial slurs, mortifying museum experience, rude dinner habits, attempted vehicular homicide and lesbian name-calling –exactly how did you see the night ending? DEFRIENDED.