I play in a kickball league. We had a date auction and I volunteered to sell myself for charity. The only people who bid on me that were not on my team were two lesbians. And they didn’t have enough money to make a real bid. This is the questionnaire they sent out to get more information about me so they’d have something to say while I was on stage.
1.17.2010
Bunnie: My Roommate from Hell
Back in the day when I was still a nice person, I agreed to live with Bunnie. 250 lbs of pure dump and frump in a compact 4’9” boulder-like physique. With breasts the sizes of honeydews, feet like cinder blocks, and leg hair so long and bristly it would make a Geico caveman feel feminine. Not surprisingly, when eating she sounded like a zombie sucking the marrow from its prey.
Nicknamed “Bunnie,” not for her furry loveable self, but because of her pet rabbit that roamed the apartment and shit in a litterbox (or on the floor) in our living room. Due to his straw bed and leafy greens dumped on our carpet regularly, our apartment smelled like a barn.
Bunnie also had a pet rat (caged), which wasn’t mentioned until move-in day when she let it run from the cage, up her arm, and around her tree-trunk neck, draping its long skinny tail like a silk ribbon across her.
About a month after she moved in, I made a joke about the rat and she mentioned it died (hooray!). Three weeks after that, as I was making some tacos, I reached for my frozen hamburger patties only to touch something frozen wrapped in a washcloth. Hrm. Was it? Could it be? Ick.
Our schedules didn’t coincide for about a week (at this point, the questionable frozen lump had been in the freezer for four weeks) when I finally brought up the potential frozen corpse.
She said that yes, indeed, it was her dead pet rat and she had been trying to find a proper burial ground for him. In a slightly high-pitched squeak, I calmly requested she “get on that” and take care of it over the weekend.
Yes, that’s right. My delicious frozen treats were side-by-side a frozen rodent.
Nicknamed “Bunnie,” not for her furry loveable self, but because of her pet rabbit that roamed the apartment and shit in a litterbox (or on the floor) in our living room. Due to his straw bed and leafy greens dumped on our carpet regularly, our apartment smelled like a barn.
Bunnie also had a pet rat (caged), which wasn’t mentioned until move-in day when she let it run from the cage, up her arm, and around her tree-trunk neck, draping its long skinny tail like a silk ribbon across her.
About a month after she moved in, I made a joke about the rat and she mentioned it died (hooray!). Three weeks after that, as I was making some tacos, I reached for my frozen hamburger patties only to touch something frozen wrapped in a washcloth. Hrm. Was it? Could it be? Ick.
Our schedules didn’t coincide for about a week (at this point, the questionable frozen lump had been in the freezer for four weeks) when I finally brought up the potential frozen corpse.
She said that yes, indeed, it was her dead pet rat and she had been trying to find a proper burial ground for him. In a slightly high-pitched squeak, I calmly requested she “get on that” and take care of it over the weekend.
Yes, that’s right. My delicious frozen treats were side-by-side a frozen rodent.
1.15.2010
Alcohol Research Study
In January, I signed up for an alcoholic research study I found on Craigslist. It paid $650 and encouraged me to drink alcohol.
On my first office visit, the student researcher and I walked into the “study room,” which looked like a college dorm. As she was showing me around, a little silent fart escaped. I didn’t realize until I walked back through it (yes, I cropdusted myself). At this point, I was just ignoring it, hoping she was either not smelling it, or pretending she didn‘t smell it.
She said she was going to go and see if the satellite was working and left the room.
I sat down in the recliner and as I was reviewing the list of movies I was allowed to watch, I said (out loud), “Oh, and sorry about polluting with my fart. I’m so GROSS!”
She walked back in and said, “Yep, we’re all set.”
That’s when she informed me that there were three cameras in the room. And that there was a microphone. All of which fed back into the room next door.
Yep….they definitely heard me apologizing for my fart.
On my first office visit, the student researcher and I walked into the “study room,” which looked like a college dorm. As she was showing me around, a little silent fart escaped. I didn’t realize until I walked back through it (yes, I cropdusted myself). At this point, I was just ignoring it, hoping she was either not smelling it, or pretending she didn‘t smell it.
She said she was going to go and see if the satellite was working and left the room.
I sat down in the recliner and as I was reviewing the list of movies I was allowed to watch, I said (out loud), “Oh, and sorry about polluting with my fart. I’m so GROSS!”
She walked back in and said, “Yep, we’re all set.”
That’s when she informed me that there were three cameras in the room. And that there was a microphone. All of which fed back into the room next door.
Yep….they definitely heard me apologizing for my fart.
1.01.2010
The Finisher
The worst of the worst. I've entered this story into every "Worst First Date" competition among friends and it hasn't lost yet. It's that terrible.
The Boston Strangler: 3 Short Stories
My last boyfriend and I dated for a year and a half. And within the first month I had some great stories.
- On our first date, we were talking about past dates and I mentioned some of my all-time worst dates. Of course, I refer to the guys not by their birth name, but by whatever nickname I had dubbed them. Some of my favorites include “The Finisher,” “Fangs,” “Love Rob,” “Rob #2,” “Fig,” and ”Krimpet.” He asked what my nickname was for him and I said that didn’t have one yet. That he hadn’t done anything dub-worthy. Throughout the date, he asked a few more times if I had come up with anything and sadly, I hadn’t. Fast forward to me dropping him off at his car and we ended up making out like high schoolers. He goes to move the hair from the side of my face and said, “I really like your neck. I’m not going to strangle you or anything….I just really like it.” Cue me laughing so hard I nearly wet myself. He continued, “Oh! Oh GOD. No…..I did it, didn’t I? I named myself. What is it? Oh fuck…” I said, “HAHAHAHHAHAHAH YES!!!!!!!!! And thus he was dubbed…..the Boston Strangler.”
- On one of our first sleepovers, I went to move a pillow and found a device under it. Since it was dark, I said, “What is this? What am I touching? OH GOD!!!!!!! WHAT IS THIS?!??!?!? Is this a headlamp?!?!?!? What the….FUCKER! What were you going to do with…oh god…..were you going to go SPELUNKING IN MY VAGINA?!?” He was dying and simultaneously trying to tell me that no, in fact, he wasn’t planning to go vaginal spelunking, he used it to work on his computer in bed so he didn’t have to get up and turn the light off.
- After 2 bottles of wine one night, we decided to play Wii sports. He was doing the fitness test and in the midst of returning tennis serves when his forehand SHATTERS a glass of red wine across my white carpet. I started cracking up when he turned around to say, “FUCK. OH GOD. I am so sorry………….Did I return the serve, though?” We were on our hands and knees trying to scrub out the stains with some tonic water. Luckily I remembered I had some carpet cleaner so we just sprayed some on and vacuumed it out. The best part was about an hour later, we were just chilling on the couch and as he was in the midst of a story I lost it. I started laughing so uncontrollably just picturing the glass shattering that I needed to run to the bathroom and wipe my tears away.
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