I Need You to Put That Fork Down

Last weekend, I went on the world’s worst date.  Everything was horrible, and in retrospect, I place the blame squarely on the guy I went out with.  Seriously, I don’t need a dude to get all cute and clever on me, and sit there and explain how many atheistic images he sees in his grilled-cheese sandwich.  That type of malarkey basically ruins the whole grilled-cheese sandwich experience for me, and anyone who has ever interfered with my enjoyment of that sacred snack has been bumped up to the top of my permanent Shit List.  So, I’m stuck with a serious problem:  I don’t just need a date in a bad way; I need a date with someone that can understand me.   And rather than pointlessly paying money to post my social profile on a dating site, I’m gonna do myself a free favor and turn this blog into a temporary advertisement for yours truly, based solely off of my relationship with food:

Hey boys, do you like fun?  Duh, that’s a stupid question – who doesn’t?  I love fun too, and since we’ve established we have at least one thing in common, I believe that warrants you taking me out on a date.  First dates typically start out with dinner, and holy shit, if you play your cards right with our dining experience, there’s like a 100% chance we’ll be crotch wrestling by the end of the night.

At the outset, don’t bother taking me out to lunch during the week because Muscle Milk and Wheat Thins are fundamentally all I consume before 6:00pm – it’s a rule.  If I break that rule, it’s usually eating a snack here or there, but even with those, I have rules:  I only like blue Otter Pops, blue Gatorade, white Airheads, and Red Vines.  Also, gummi bears and burnt peanuts are unexceptional as separates, but together they make a fucking symphony in my mouth (as does Fresca and any other beverage I only drink because of my unhealthy nostalgia for the 80s).

No pressure with Italian food, but I’ve totally been to Italy (read: I’m cultured).  Although I hardly ate a thing in that country because I was poor as shit, I’d like to think I can spot a good pizza.  Here in the states, our best bet would be any one of those joints with singing robots on a stage.  

I watch a ton of cooking shows about food that I ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ and ‘yum’ at, but in reality would have zero interest in actually eating any of it.  I just think food is pretty.  However, if you elect to take me out to a fancy restaurant to eat pretty food, I only really go to those places for the chewy bread the waiter sets on the table before we actually order.  

Many people assert that sushi would be considered fine dining.  I disagree because while sushi is marginally delicious, there is no chewy bread served before the meal (see above), and the sushi rolls themselves are too big for my mouth.  I don’t want my face to look like I'm already giving head before we’ve even finished dinner.  If we do end up going to sushi though, remember to never, ever, ever take your chopsticks and put any food item on my plate.  If anyone is going be aggressively shoving California rolls off to someone else, it’s gonna be me, ya dig?

I get these grand delusions of being a foodie, but I’m probably the most finicky mother fucker that’s ever been seated at Applebee’s.  Oh, and also, if we’re going to do the chain thang, just so you know, I get greedy and hoard the cheese biscuits at Red Lobster (even though you are served an endless supply while dining) because those divine orbs of baked dough are the only thing I’ll eat at that shit show.

I’m guilty of panic attacks when I’m either too starving to even walk properly, or if things just aren’t going my way while dining out.  I hate almost all types of meat except for medium-rare steaks, so if I’m served a sirloin that has no pink in it, I usually just start crying.  It’s really effective!  What truly turns me on is when a guy knows to switch out my plate with his when a) I’m eyeing the salmon he ordered jealously, and b) I’m not eating the dish I ordered, but instead just poking it with a fork in disgust.  I also get into panic attack mode when any dish is served to me with melted cheese on top of it.  Melted cheese is absolutely vile on anything except pizza.  

I’m looking for that special someone who will agree with me that leftovers are gross.  Unless it’s Indian food, I will judge the shit out of you for packing it up, and not in a good way.  In my mind, when a dude orders a to-go box, I’m thinking, “Seriously, the bread on that sandwich is going to be soggy and stale as shit in about two hours.  Why do you do this to yourself?”  I get the argument that world hunger reached a billion people a couple years ago, but I’m still a notorious food-waster.  There isn’t one restaurant in this town where a server hasn’t given me the stink eye for only finishing an eighth of my plate.  In my defense, I get very serious about portion sizes, and it’s not my fault that I am repeatedly served pasta dishes the size and weight of my head.  One last thing I hate about leftovers is that people look like idiots when they’re toting around a Styrofoam box all night after dinner.

In lieu of taking me out, I could agree to just cook for you.  I’m not too bad in the kitchen.  However, if you know you cannot handle extreme spice and garlic in everything including dessert, then you probably may want to start practicing how to slip food into your napkin unnoticed, and eat something before heading over to my place.

The infallible way into my heart is the easiest – forget the food, and just buy me beer.  Lots of it.  My daily beer calorie intake far exceeds any calories I consume through solid food, so you’d be basically setting both of us up for a major win: me getting what I want, and you not having to pay for dinner OR listen to me complain.  

So……anybody out there thinking, “HOOK ME UP WITH THAT”?