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?