and I never liked the damn Gipper.
Two Dollar Radio have just emailed me to let me know my short (and unfortunately nonfiction) story placed in the top ten of their Shittiest Dates contest. My mother would be so proud! Although my mother would have wanted me to go out with him again; he was a preppy!
Here is their manifesto. I simply refuse to enter a contest from a literary platform that doesn’t have a manifesto, don’t you? Well, you have to draw the line somewhere.
And now, the glorious winner. You can see it on their site, too, but since you’ve probably already clicked on the links, you know that. And have been there, done that, and if you bought the t-shirt I thank you because it’ll pay for my prize in the next contest, etc etc. Operation Global Media Domination is proceeding as planned.
Behold, the mind-numbing horror of one of the ten shittiest dates ever entered into the contest run by Two Dollar Radio:
I should have known it was going to be a long night when he asked me if I minded going out “after rush hour, when the bus fare goes down.”
He was tall. He was handsome. He was fit. He was educated, intelligent, in law school.
He was in love with Rebecca.
How do I know this? He told me. At length. In the restaurant, he insisted on ordering a particular dessert wine with the main course. Bewildered, I wondered if it was some new foodie fad. No, he said, it was because it was called “Sweet Rebecca,” and that was his ex-girlfriend’s name. She dropped him. She was cruel, and sweet, and had hair like golden silk, or so I was informed. When not explaining how perfect she had been, he spent many a long, silent moment staring into the glass and murmuring “Sweet Rebecca.”
At one point he pulled out a ten-dollar bill and showed me the family resemblance to John A. MacDonald, to which I could only reply, “Yes, one of Canada’s truly great alcoholics.” It was a little too late to impress me by then. And he’d drunk most of the wine, although I could have used a Martini or four, myself.
On the way home, he borrowed bus fare; I never intended to see him again, however decorative he may have been, but at a dollar seventy-five to get rid of him it was a steal.
On the long, no, endless ride home, he had one more golden memory for me. Halfway there, he slowly removed his ski gloves and proceeded, methodically, to pick his nose.
Don't keep it to yourself!
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