Did you hear the one about the guy that walks into self-imposed sexual exile?

I was on a disaster date recently, and the poor shmuck led off with a horrible joke. I don’t really remember much about the joke… maybe something about a bear and a lizard in a bar with a Jewish guy drinking mimosas, but that’s neither here nor there. I am not someone who particularly cares for jokes. In fact, I hate them. Let’s face it, they’re never funny. You have a better chance of dying in a shark attack than bringing down the house with your ill-delivered punch line. It’s not clear to me whether the chance for laughter after a shitty joke increases as your proximity to the ocean does, but my guess would be no. Sorry, Florida jackasses. To me, there’s nothing worse than listening to some douchebag regurgitate a crappy e-mail forward sent to him by his Aunt Betty. Unfortunately, when spam happens in person, there isn’t a delete button to assist you in your plight.

The joke in question was not quick in nature. In fact, I believe that I’ve had packages delivered via UPS cross country in a more timely manner. At one point I contemplated calling Yellow Cab to see if there was a chance they could get me to the end of the story faster. I had to have appeared completely agitated as I sat there assessing the location of the fire exits. I was secretly hoping that the 400 pound slob at the table next to me would choke on one of the chicken wings he was feverishly shoving at his rotund, sauce covered face. I would have rather performed CPR on that sweaty-browed pigman than listen to another minute of this crap. When it finally ended, my newly nicknamed friend, Spamuel laughed at his own joke hysterically. He gave me a confused look and said, “Don’t you like funny jokes? I was feeling pressure to be funny since I’ve been told that’s what you liked.”UGH… are you kidding me? THAT was premeditated? That makes it so much worse! He actually went into the evening thinking that would be a sure fire way to seal the deal. I guess I should be thankful he didn’t bust out a knock-knock joke. I’m pretty sure the last time a guy told me a joke as a wooing technique was in second grade, and he kicked me in the shin and pulled my ponytail immediately afterwards. That little prick insisted I had cooties for at least 6 months after I rejected him. Let the record show that I did not (at least as far as I know). There’s no official test designed to detect cooties, at least not that I’m aware of.

I didn’t stick around for drinks afterward, as I was unable to get past the fact that his opener was like a Jay Leno monologue, except even less funny. I politely thanked him for dinner and gave him the wrong e-mail address when he excitedly announced that he wanted to include me on his chain e-mail list of un-funny bullshit. I have to admit that the guy was really hot until he started talking. I was beginning to question myself, wondering if I’d been too hard on him. Maybe it’s not that important to be hilarious and I should accept the bowling alley humor. Just then, I watched as he used the keyless remote to unlock his car parked down the street. I may have actually broken into a sprint as I noticed the personalized license plate. That’s a concrete way to announce to the world that you’re a douche, both coming and going. That’s just not something I’m willing to accept.


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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

August 2010
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