There is a new King in the land of NO GAME and his name is [redacted]

There is a new King in the land of NO GAME and his name is [redacted]

Hear ye, Hear ye, and be it known far and wide throughout the realm of NO GAME, that a new King has ascended to the throne, having been crowned, most recently, by yours truly. Bow down, for he is one of you! 

Verily, he has risen from the ranks of self anointed nerds and desperately awkward introverts you know as neighbors, distinguishing himself amongst you, by achieving a feat of the most impressive lack of Suave I have ever personally been a party to.

Come with me now as we journey deep into the heart of derpness:

Damn, dude. I mean, just. Damn.
— [redacted] Eggplant's best friend, probably

So there I am, waiting for your King to arrive at the bar for this first date we are supposed to go on, and for which I am feeling a renewed enthusiasm, after he told me he had worn "awesome socks today" and then sent me a picture of these truly great, gray-white-green patterned socks, onto which "this meeting is BULLSHIT" had been printed.

He arrives, and sits down, and I am struck his intense okayness. Only slightly fazed, I take a breath to steady myself, and set out to battle through the thicket of small talk to discover the promised land whence the source of this sock wearing whimsy might be found.

But...Fuck, dudes. Indiana Jones I ain’t.

because I cannot cut a path through the ho-hum brambles wide enough to locate any personality. We work our way down to the bottom of our drinks, having covered such scintillating topics as

1. his job
2. my job
3. the metro
4. driving
5. excel spreasdheets
6. graphs

so I am not feeling super positive that things are going to turn out particularly well, but I am willing to give him another drink to see if he is maybe just cripplingly nervous and will settle down a bit once the liquor takes hold. 

So ok, we are cashing out in order to go over to another bar we'd discussed, when your King looks over to me, and says, totally deadpan and with all earnestness:

This is a bad date. We should just go our separate ways.

It is not the sentiment, but the sheer bluntness of this that takes me by surprise, (and also, ouch a little bit, I knew I wasn't totally feeling it, but I didn't know that he wasn't, damn) so I sort of cough out, "Ok." pause "Well, it was nice to meet you," and go to grab my jacket, at which point, your king revealed himself to me.

His hand zips out and clutches my arm, and he says, in the exact same deadpan tone and all in his royal glory:

No, stay, that was a joke, sorry.

How this could be considered a joke fully eludes me. That it seemed a good idea to go ahead and let this out of his mouth is additionally mystifying.

I am so stupefied by my the insanity of the idea that anyone could say such a thing, in such a way, as a joke, to a person they were actually still interested in, that I release my grip on my jacket, sit back down, and again sort of cough, "OK."   We then sit in SILENCE for, oh,  I'ma say a full 60 seconds, while I type on my phone (that I'd gotten out, cause I was leaving) and try to figure out wtf just happened.

I am slightly dazed as he begins to talk to me again, in what I assume was an attempt to salvage things, (but seriously, how do you come back from that?) and we stagger out of the bar together, ostensibly towards this second bar.

We cover a total of maybe 10 feet before I tell him, "hey, I think I'm gonna just go to the metro," and watch his face crumple in his own version of confused sadness. I give him a friendly pat on the shoulder and run across the street, almost flattening a small tourist child in my haste to get away from this situation.

But wait, there’s more

Egregiously running up the score in this history making, new Olympic world record for NO GAME, in what many might regard as an unsportsmanlike, and greedy display of prowess in the field, were the following texts I received in quick succession as I was fleeing towards the warm embrace of my forever friends, cheese and tequila:

Sorry it was not lit.

No hard feelings, sometimes these things happen.

I thought the silence was golden, honestly.


To which I can only say:

All hail [redacted] Eggplant, King of the land of NO GAME!

Long may he reign.

Defensive Fucking: Tips for avoiding an embarrassingly specific series of sex injuries

Defensive Fucking: Tips for avoiding an embarrassingly specific series of sex injuries

Freegans...I just cannot.

Freegans...I just cannot.