That Time I Went on the Worst Date of My Life

Last night I went on worst date of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been on bad dates before, and some of them are solid contenders for the title “worst date ever” but I’m pretty sure this one gets the medal.

Let’s call my date “Cheap Douche.” I met him  online (obviously, because I apparently no longer believe in real human interaction). He asked for my number. I refused. He kept asking. I caved. He called me. I told him I would only go on a date with him if it was something unique or exciting.

CD said he had a great surprise date for me an hour outside of Miami and asked if he could pick me up. Hell if you think I'm driving an hour for a date, so I called my sister to tell her if she didn't hear from me to assume I was dead & call the police. 

From the moment CD picked me up I began to dislike him.

He started with saying “Damn, I should have used your restroom before we left.” Umm, you think I’m going to let you in my apartment? I’m not even letting you know which floor I live on.

“Oh well” I said, “Guess you’ll just have to hold it.” He then says “Or I can just piss myself.” I don’t respond. I guess he took my silence as a cue that I wanted him to go even further so he said “Yeah, I wear diapers.” Please stop. "Hahaha. I wear diapers and piss myself!"Kill me.

Then we pass a building and he says “That place is great!”

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s a strip club, but it’s not as good as this other one in Miami.”

Classy. 

By this point I had already decided I’d rather slide down a banister full of razors and land in a pit of salt and cockroaches than go on a second date with him, so I try to make the best of it since I’m stuck with him for now. 

I say “Oh. I’m not a big fan of strip clubs because when I went to one it didn’t live up to my expectations. It was nothing like the movies.”

“You like strip clubs?” he asks. Were you listening to me at all? “By the sounds of it, it sounds like you like girls too.” Yep. By saying I don’t like strip clubs I was actually saying I like strip clubs and I’m bi. Thanks for keeping up.

Then he takes me to a diner before we go on our “great surprise date” which wasn't a surprise at all – I guessed it was go-kart racing before we even got out of Miami (it’s seriously impossible to surprise me). 

I tell him how much I love cheeseburgers and he said something about how I don’t look like I eat a lot and I told him that I always get a to-go box because I never finish my burger. Then he encourages me to get a burger (buddy, I don’t need encouragement, I live for cheeseburgers – my boss frequently tells strangers “Stephanie would do anything for a cheeseburger!” (which he should probably stop doing, but that’s not the point)).

While we’re eating he keeps saying the douchiest things and it took everything I had not to take my fork and shove it in his right eye. Then he tells me to hurry up so we can go racing. I said “I’m done, I just have to get a box.”

AND THEN IT HAPPENED.

He said, “No. That’s not going in my car.”

EXCUSE ME? 

“I have a nice car and I don’t want a burger in it,” he tells me.

WHAT?! DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT CHEESEBURGERS MEAN TO ME?!

 “Really?” I responded, “Unless your Acura just turned into a Lamborghini, I don’t see the problem.”

This is an Acura Sedan. This is not a Lamborghini. 

“Really. I want my car to stay clean and watch your mouth when you talk about my car” he tells me.  

Watch my mouth? Watch my mouth?! Listen Douchebag, I wanted to put the burger in a box and go in your car, I wasn’t planning on smearing the burger all over your dashboard (but now I’m considering it).

THEN THIS DOUCHE TAKES A BITE OF MY CHEESEBURGER! ARE YOU KIDDING?! HOW DARE YOU!

By this point I feel like I’m giving him enough vibes, dirty looks, and serious insults to let him know that I think he’s a complete waste of skin, but apparently not because then he tried to get all touchy with me. 

Your hand on my back? No. 

Grabbing my arm? Don’t you dare. 

Put your hands on my face? BACK THE FUCK UP.

I literally push you away every time you get within 5 feet of me, how do you not understand that I’d rather make out with Larry King than be near you?

Larry was pumped when he found out about our upcoming makeout session.

Then we go to the go-kart place and it comes time to pay and he insists on going halfsies! Excuse me? You asked me on a date and you expect me to pay?  Do you really think I want to pay $30 to drive in circles for 5 minutes? You’re shitting me, right?

He wasn’t. He legit had me pay and I got to drive in circles for 5 minutes like I couldn’t have done the same thing in my parking garage for free with my XM radio which would have been far better company.

The entire time I was trying to find a way to get the go-kart out of the building so I could drive it home so I wouldn’t have to get back in Cheap Douche’s super fancy (burgerless) Acura.

No such luck. I got stuck suffering on the ride home with the Cheap Douche who decided to take this time to brag about his go-karting skills. I spent this time wishing that we would drive into a pole.

When he got bored bragging, he went back to his diaper bit. Not kidding.

He also was kind enough to tell me that he can’t drink apple juice because it gives him gas. No really, please let us crash into a pole. 

By the time we got to my building, I basically jumped out of the car, and considering I’m a cripple that’s impressive. As I walked in front of his car to get to my building he decided to honk at me. 

I kindly gave him the finger and went inside.

…he still texted me today.

Abridged version:

Douche wouldn’t let me take my leftover cheeseburger home because apparently Acuras are Lambos now. Topics discussed included diapers, strippers, and passing gas. He made me pay on a date that he asked me on. When he dropped me off I gave him the finger. He still texted me the next day.

Lessons Learned?

1.       Some guys really don’t get the hint. Even when the hint is my middle finger.

2.       No matter how hard you wish, sometimes cars just will not independently drive into poles.

3.       No matter how hard you wish, Acuras are not Lamborghinis. 

Again. This is NOT a Lambo.