You taste like a buffalo chicken sandwich, I don't like you anymore.

My #1 Fag Hag and your #1 Fag Hag were best friends from high school, so naturally they HAD to set us up on a blind date. We decided to do Dinner and a Movie. I chose the movie, The Phantom of the Opera. You hated it, and had no problem leaning over during one of the romantic scenes to tell me how gay it was (WE’RE gay!). After that, I decided to let you choose where to eat. The first thing that came to your mind: Wendys. Alright, I get it, you are one of those “straight acting” guys. I went to park and you said “oh no, let’s go to the drive through, I know a nice little park we can eat it in”. You proceeded to order a spicy chicken sandwich meal, biggie size, then told me how to get to the “park”, which turned out to be the lot behind your high school, that you had graduated from 5 years prior. By the time you were done, my whole car reeked of buffalo sauce, so I offered you some gum. You said “no thanks” as you not-so-smoothly leaned in for the kiss. About 4 seconds later my cell phone magically got a text from a friend in need and I had to drive your smelly ass home.


 
--Submitted by Liberace.

You live in Space Mountain.

You were quite drunk, the stumbling/mumbling kind. That's what first attracted me to you. The glassy eyes, unsteady gait--my heart was racing. You asked me to help you, and when I said I couldn't, you said that you had to fly to Orlando in the morning. I said that was great! You then leaned in way too close and whispered in my ear, "I could pleasure you like you wouldn't believe... you wouldn't even know I was there." I said that I didn't at all know what that meant, but you winked and said assertively, "I think you do."

You then yelled at me to tell you what book I was reading until you got thrown out by the bouncer. See you in Tomorrowland!

You don't play left field.

I was living 2,000 away from home. I didn’t know many people, so I spent a lot of time at the gym. My BMI thanked me, my social calendar did not. So when you got on the treadmill next to me, even though there were several other opened, I’ll admit-I smiled on the inside. We small talked about the usual: what we did for work, what we liked to do for fun, where we were from (Me: Boston , You: Texas ). I thought it was going somewhat well. You mentioned your family was originally from Mexico . We were down south-that sounded about right. I tried to impress you with the limited Spanish vocabulary I could remember from college. You tried to impress me by increasing the incline on your treadmill. All was going well. We left the gym together and as I walked by you to my car, you noticed the back of my Red Sox Tee. “Oh my god, that’s so weird!” You proclaimed. I turned back around just in time to realize there was no sarcasm on your face or in your voice as you said: "Your last name is Ramirez?? That's my last name too!!”

Apparently Red Sox Nation has yet to reach your native town in Mexico . You are a Male, correct? As in you have a penis? Do you not watch sports? How do you not know who Manny Ramirez is? I’m so confused. (Also I feel it is important to note: adding to the unintentional comedic value of your comment- I am 100% irish, with freckles, pale skin, red hair, ect).

So to answer your question: No. My last name is not Ramirez. And due to your lack of common sports knowledge-and common sense-it never will be.

You have an AARP Card, don't you?

Sitting at the end of a bar by yourself always comes with risks. I had no choice, my friends were running late. I ordered a drink and tried not to make eye contact with any of the old townie locals. My first red flag should have been when you said, "Is this seat taken?" as you crept up next to me. I didn't know people still said that. You could probably tell I wasn't interested, so you threw out your 'A' game: "I noticed you as soon as walked in the bar." I assumed it was because I was the only one there under the age of 35. I underestimated you. Or should I say overestimated you. Then you brought out the kicker.

"You look exactly like my daughter."

Hmmm. Interesting. So not only are you admitting to being old enough to be my father, you are hitting on someone you thinks looks like your daughter. Gross. On so many levels.

You're "with" the band.

I saw you help the band load in, set up their gear, and tune their guitars. Apparently you saw me, too, and confused my curiosity in the load-in process with interest in you. I asked you whether you were the band's manager, (you said yes). You asked me if I liked the band, (I did), and if I wanted a t-shirt from the merch table, (sure), but what you forgot to ask me was whether I wanted to hear a 10 minute long confession about your heartache over past relationships, your ex's drug addiction, and your level of interest in beginning to date again. Silly you! Thanks for the t-shirt, and I know a guitar tech when I see one.

You are your wingman's wingman.

You saw me texting and thought it was a good opportunity to try your luck, so you started reading off your phone number, saying "Oh, I thought you were trying to get my digits." Ha, good one, no. All good. You walked away and ten minutes later, your friend came over and tried the exact. same. line. Nice try, maybe next time. You then used each other's lines a good 2-3 times after this, somehow not realizing that you were both hitting on me until I remarked, "Hey that's funny, but your friend tried the same line a minute ago." I thought that failure and embarrassment would dissuade you but alas! You both came over at the end of the night to invite me to "hang" at your apartment, late-night. What's that phrase, if at first you don't succeed, join forces with your roommate in a desperate attempt to snag a girl so you can fight over her in the comfort of your grimy apartment?

You lived.

College thing. Both drunk. You liked it rough. Asleep.

Woke up. Floor. You in bed. My bed. Snoring, unmovable.

Slept in friend's room. On floor. You in bed. My bed. Goodnight.

Next week: Overdose. Cocaine. You lived. You left. I graduated.

Goodbye!

You were O'Sketchy.

We met at an Irish public house, the kind with no chairs and wood everywhere. I admired your youth and vitality, as well as your discerning palate: top shelf vodka to go with your Redbull. You asked me if I wanted to dance...that is, after the guy you were with went to the restroom. Forgive me for having intruded into your personal affairs, a thousand apologies...but I did have to know who he was. I explained to you my position on getting punched in the face. You laughed, explaining "Oh, that's my sister's boyfriend." Your sister was nowhere in sight. After a few more minutes, I was too.

You got home.

We met at a party. It was late, I was drunk, and you were there. I told you my plans of going home and making some blue box macaroni and cheese, and you told me you were a classically trained chef. I wasn't drunk enough to believe you, but I thought maybe some assistance with cooking would possibly help prevent me from starting a fire in my apartment. I let you walk me home, and by the time we arrived I was too tired to think about eating. I decided, against my better judgment, to let you stay over. You tried to convince me to sleep with you. I said no. You tried to convince me to pleasure you. I said no. You then excused yourself to go to the bathroom, when I decided I would lock you out of my bedroom… until I heard the all too familiar sounds of puking coming from down the hall. Since I'm a semi-decent person, and was afraid I would eventually have to clean something up, I decided to check on you. The bathroom door was open, and you were praying to the porcelain god… wearing only your t-shirt & tighty whities...that unfortunately for you were not so tight.

I screamed and ran back to my room to attempt to locate your pants. Being that I was quite intoxicated and forgot to turn the light on, the mission turned out to be quite unsuccessful. You finished your business, came back down the hallway, and started to put your shoes on. I told you that you could stay on the couch. You refused. I told you that you couldn't possibly go home in this state. You refused. I told you that there was no way you could walk home without your pants on. You told me, "Don't worry. It's happened before."

I still to this day do not know how you managed to get home with no pants, no cell phone, and no keys.

-Submitted by Neelloc.

You slept like a baby.

We were friends at overnight camp when I was 12, back when you had a big head and no womanly parts to speak of. I happened to randomly run into you ten years later, and you had turned out so hot I would, to quote a friend, "eat your shit." I nervously asked you out on a date and you said yes. We went out to an expensive club, you spent all my money on $15 vodka redbulls, flirted with several douche bags in Ed Hardy T-shirts, and ended up drunk and shirtless outside the bar at 12:30 an hour and a half after we got there. I ushered you into a cab and by the time we got to your place you had sobered up and invited me in. An impromptu bang session occurred during which you passed out. I woke up the next morning covered in a puddle of your cold, sticky pee. You woke up 10 minutes later, made yourself a bowl of cereal, and pretended like nothing happened. Did you think I wouldn't notice? I guess I should be thankful you didn't take a dump on me. Thanks but no thanks.

-Submitted by LLCoolJay.

You had an unhealthy obsession with William Shatner.

We had sex. It was ok. I was drunk and I think you might have bit me at some point. Everything was fine until I went to check my email and saw an online shrine to all things Kirk. I thought it was a joke or an ironic quirk. I couldn’t have been more wrong. You really thought he was hot. You watched his Priceline commercials with frightening glee. You really liked him. You had his musical records, pillowcases, pictures and even a poster of you superimposed, kissing him. I couldn’t tell you why I wouldn’t talk to you anymore. Maybe it was because I was embarrassed to have ever been inside you. Maybe it was because I was afraid you’d stab me in my sleep. Either way, the last time we saw each other, you came over my house to give me a parting gift. You gave me a Rubik’s cube because you “couldn’t figure me out”.

Beam me up creepy.

Your boyfriend showed up to our date.

It would have been nice to know you had a boyfriend before we went out. Three drinks in, and you told me that you didn't want to come to this bar because your boyfriend comes here. Interesting. Five more minutes and there he was, pulling up a seat right next to us. It was really nice hanging out with him by the way. When we all had a drink together, that was about as awkward as the sex we ended up having later that night. Since we're playing the "hindsight is 20:20" card, it would have also been nice to know that you weren't on the pill before the intercourse. If you're pregnant I'm claiming it's his.

You need to reevaluate your definition of a romantic evening.

You shouldn't have been hooking up with me in the first place. We had one drink, literally one drink and I drove you home. You wouldn't let me go up to your apartment because you have cats or something so you wanted to have sex in my car. Regrettably, I accepted. But seriously, you set the bar pretty high for this relationship thus far. You broke my cupholder off when you pulled some maneuver that ended up pinching a nerve in my back and giving me a herniated disc. In honor of this night's events, your bra is now on top of a tree at Mt. Snow. Talk to you soon.

Your friends literally shit on people for money.

You told me you were bisexual on our first date. Ok you win, I was intrigued. But when our dinner came out, was it really necessary to tell me graphic stories of your friends who have defecated on their sexual partners for money? I'll never look at shortribs the same way again. Thanks.

You got too excited talking about Bed Bath and Beyond.

I couldn’t fathom how someone could gain so much pleasure from a store that devotes an entire section to crock pots. It was a Friday night and you had your whole Saturday planned around going to a store dedicated to all things bed, all things bath, and all things beyond. Fogless mirrors, scented candles and stainless steel hell were your final destination. “Oh my god, I hope they have Snuggies! I totally want one,” you said with genuine enthusiasm. I said something sarcastic and you told me I was totally a “Chandler." I have never felt so aware of my own demise.

You bled in my mouth.

First of all, you took me to the one Mexican restaurant that I told you I was kicked out of - like literally a life ban. There was no reason to test the waters. Taking me there didn't put me at ease. Second of all, 20 minutes into our first date there's no reason to tongue kiss me from across a family style table - the table was too wide and the Asian family uncomfortably staring at us didn't make anything 'romantic.' I get it. You are a sensitive guy, you want to make a real life connection, but can I give you advice? Next time when you drop a girl off and go in for the goodbye kiss, wait a few days until after you have a root canal. Your mouth tasted like iron and now I have to bill you for my HIV test. Thanks.

You read porno on our first date.

You taught me that going on dates with guys on MySpace is really a bad idea. Thanks. I know you go to Brown University and all, but the academic crap is really all you have going for you. I probably shouldn't have let you into my apartment on our first date - that's my fault. Here's a tip though: when a girl's apartment has a variety of porno magazines on her coffee table in a fan display, it's most likely a J-O-K-E. There was no greater buzz kill than to watch you ogle over old porno for half an hour. There's a reason I wouldn't even make out with you.

Your mother is obese.

It was like looking into a crystal ball filled with all the salad and breadsticks you can eat.

You and my dad have the same accessories.

We met at a college reggae bar. You were the guy in the button up shirt who was already out of college. I was the 21-year-old in the too-short skirt. When our mutual friend introduced us I was already 4 cran-vodkas in and thought that your white guy head bob was sort of endearing.

The next night the 3 of us met for drinks and when you went to the bathroom our mutual friend let it slip that your ex had a restraining order against you.

I went out with you later that week anyway.

We went for a lovely walk in a nature reserve, but when you took off your jacket I saw it: You had a cell phone holder clipped to your belt. At least it wasn't a beeper.

You have a really lame tattoo.

I dig chicks with bad ass tattoos. Who doesn’t? Nothing says “daddy issues” like some ink under your skin. But when you bent over I was shocked. I can deal with a Japanese character or two. Maybe you got a little drunk after a WBCN River Rave a few years back and succumbed to a dare.
But there is no excuse for the Japanese character for friendship, love, happiness, or whatever could be accurately described by a well placed emoticon, surrounded by two dolphins leaping over a peace sign. I mean, I love Dolphins just as much as the next guy, they are mystically divine creatures from my early days playing Sega Genesis. But I’m pretty sure Echo the Dolphin wouldn’t plow you if you were knee deep in kelp begging for a life-saving frolic in fuckville.

You have questionable decision making skills.

Your business is certainly your business. I don't need to pry, and while I am not threatened in the least by the knowledge that you have had sex and dated other guys before me, I'm not exactly about to question you about the details.

For future reference, though, a month after we have been sleeping together is way too late to casually mention that you don't take birth control. Looks like my casual "no, I really don't mind wearing a condom" was a monumentally awesome decision. Apparently, so was my decision to "accept" your breakup with little to no hard feelings or arguments, as I found out later you were dating my roommate/pot dealer inside of a week.

On a side note, I now immediately dislike anyone who looks like you. Thanks for that. And thanks for the C in Audio Engineering because I skipped the mid-term for a hasty doctor's appointment. Looks like both my tests were negative that day. Slut.

You don't know when to stop talking.

You used to come to my dorm all the time because you were friends with my neighbors, and I thought you were really cute. I liked how you surfed and you always had pot for me.

One night you came over and got a nose bleed. I guess that happens sometimes, no biggie.

But then you said it reminded you of this one time in high school when a girl who sat in front of you in class got her period and didn’t know it, and when she finally stood up it was everywhere, and it smelled funny. Sort of like rust. And you just couldn't get the smell out of your mind. Why did you have to say that?

You had one beer.

I met you at the bar for some loud blues music and a drink, but it got late and I wanted to hit the hay. I hate driving, and you knew how to drive stick, so when we left the bar I asked you to take the wheel for the ride home. I handed you the keys and slid into the passenger seat, only after you swore you only had one drink. I must be a pretty trusting person, because I believed you, even after you were exchanging information with the guy whose parked car you hit.

Maybe you should have mentioned the half dozen benzodiazepines you took before I got there.

You've "done" drugs.

I agreed to go on a date with you because I was trying to get over my ex-boyfriend and you told me that you had a rent controlled apartment on the Upper East Side.
On the subway you said that your dad was a cop in the narcotics division so you had never done illegal drugs.
I know I must have had an odd look on my face. So you quickly mentioned that you once tried to smoke an ounce of oregano in college and it was OMG SO FUNNY! You couldn’t feel your left arm! You fell asleep in the bathtub!
We went to a hookah bar and you couldn’t figure out how to use the hookah even though you had assured me that you'd done it before.
You got mad when I wouldn’t kiss you, and angrier when I ignored your calls. When I ran into you at a festival in Baltimore, I told you I could get you into the afterparty.

I can lie too.

You are my cousin.

People change over the years. I got glasses, you got a lot taller. And I know when you saw me at that wedding that it had been quite a while. But did you really not remember me? From Thanksgiving? You told me all about your large bank account, bought me a drink and talked about your souped up car, all after I explained that your cousin was my cousin. Do you know what that makes us? Cousins. I know we aren't technically related, but we used to sit at the same kid's table, and played Sega together.

I will not be the Tails to your Sonic.

You barfed on my floor.

I met you at the bar on my birthday. That tight white tee shirt made you eye-catching and the beer made you gorgeous. I'm not quite sure how we ended up dating. I think it was boredom, mostly. Remember that time when you came over with your staple six pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade? It took about ten minutes for you to come in the door, barf all over my kitchen floor, clean it up, and quietly excuse yourself. We all felt bad, you probably felt worse. Thanks for cleaning the floor, though. I mean I wasn't gonna ask you to clean it. In fact, I don't think I ever actually said another word to you after that. Good times. Good times.

You left out crucial shit.

I really had a great time. Our dialogue was engaging, I'm legitimately interested in what little I understand of what you do for a living and you look spectacular in that top. Even though I don't typically like chick flicks, it warmed my heart when that chick finally got married at the end.

Perhaps after I had taken you out to a dinner at a place where people put nice pants on, cheerfully ordered the vodka in my drink by name to appear cultured, dropped ten bucks on Area 51 while waiting for the movie because you can't shoot aliens worth a damn, shelling out outrageous movie ticket prices which I know full well are going into buying props like ugly bridesmaid #7's dress and taking a cab home because you don't like the way Park Street smells and me trying to kiss you good night wasn't the best time to turn away and tell me that you weren't ready to start a relationship because you had just got out of another.
I had a great time and I got no problem burning bucks to have a good time, happiness is more important than money any day. But while you're relaxing in your warm apartment, I'm walking back to fucking Brighton in 10 degree weather because it's 12:50am and the T is closed, I got half a hardon that's mad at me for waking it up for no reason when its cold out, I just threw away 2 1/2 Sunday shifts at City Sports working the stupid shoe floor where everyone wants goddamn Merrills, and by the time I got home the keg was empty and everyone had already eaten all the mushrooms.
It wasn't like I was handing you a ring or making plans to take you to my parents place, lady. I could have dealt with all of this if you had just given me a quick peck and a smile and I would have floated home on rays of fucking sunshine.

A few notes for you, because I'm all about constructive criticism:

1) Shoot the big green aliens with the shotgun. They're twice the size, they need more firepower. We're not talking quantum physics here.

2) Gainfully employed women don't order Smirnoff Ice at a restaurant.

3) Park Street smells because the train wheel lubricants biodegrade. Way to hate the environment.

4) Hugh Grant sucks as a standing rule. Even if you make him a woman and name him Cameron Diaz or something stupid, he still sucks and the movie is still a waste of time.

5) When you tuck your jeans into those big furry boots, you look like a yak. Yak's aren't hot. If you're gonna dress like that, make sure I've had way more to drink and wear something with a more revealing neckline to balance it out.

6) Don't think I didn't see that pair of fucking Merrills next to your front door. I hate you.

So thanks but no thanks, I'll be dining with alternate company in the future. Mooch.

You called me old.

I was totally waiting for someone to talk to me while waiting in line to get into that club, that's why I was shivering and looking straight ahead. When you came over to chat and asked how old I was, I thought it was a fair question. What I did not expect was your reaction to my answer: "You are way hotter than 26!" I told you that that didn't make any sense and was a little offensive, but you felt the need to keep going. "You don't have any laugh lines or anything!" When I remarked that I didn't know any 26 yr olds with laugh lines, you looked down, sensing your defeat. "We aren't going to have sex, are we?"

No, we aren't.

You got married.

Remember that time that I called to tell you that I took off work for your birthday? And you never called me back? Literally ever? Then you totally got married.

You called me Angela.

Granted, you were clearly on a heavy dose of acid, that's ok. And when you spilled your beer on my feet and looked sheepish, also not a problem. But you shook my hand and said "nice to meet you, Angela!" and scampered away. You will not be my husband.

You talked about Jesus.

Now, please understand that I have nothing against religions that are not my own. I have studied them at length, and I respect most of them deeply (not you, Scientology). But when we are on a date and I happen to mention that I am Jewish, what made you think that a 15 minute soliloquy on your close, personal relationship with God's son would make my heart melt? I love that you are into your faith, that's totally cool with me, but telling me you were sad when he died? Like you were there? You make-a me squirm, sir.

You took me to Chili's.

There were hundreds of restaurants in the area to choose from. Japanese, Indian, Hawaiian, Middle Eastern, Australian, really anything you could think of. But you chose Chili's. Granted, I did meet you in a car dealership, but when you picked me up in your dark green Camaro and asked me where I wanted to eat, that was not what I expected you to suggest. I didn't think you would take such advantage of my easygoing nature and obvious lack of experience with any date that didn't involve the mall or a keg. And I do love Chili's, don't get me wrong, it's just that the harsh lighting and crap on the walls doesn't exactly put me in a "romantic" mood. Thanks for the $13 meal and the free refills, I'll never forget you.