I realized this halfway through a retelling of a story concerning my most traumatizing sexual experience. In retrospect, the funniest part was that it somehow took halfway through the story to notice that my dick is not a valid topic of discussion on a first date. Well, not unless I become a date rapist, anyway. And I simply do not have the money to buy guitar shit AND roofies.
However, I also realized something valuable: mace is, at best, a double-edged sword when used in enclosed spaces.
No, what I realized was that I never really liked cool girls anyway. In fact, I actually find them pretty repellent on the whole. I can’t even count the times I’ve been out in a bar when my friends will grab my shoulder and spin me to face a girl with a fantastic body. Where-upon I’ll size her up and say, “Yeah, she’s hot—but she’s too trendy for me.”
I don’t want a girl who dresses up because that’s what’s “in” at the moment. I don’t want a girl who listens to top 40. I don’t want a girl who is so insecure in her own taste that she has to throw herself before the alter of public pressure to tell her how to dress and act. Trendy girls instantly lose points in my book because I just assume that they pretty much have nothing to add to a conversation. And that means I have to be the one talking…meaning that sooner or later I’m going to tell a widely inappropriate story.
Trying to be cool is ALWAYS bound to fail and not just because of my horrible acting abilities and blurting problem. It was doomed because the girls who LIKE cool Ehren earn my disgust.
Still…the “spermicide” story on the first date? There’s a difference between being counter-cultural and a fucking idiot. What is it? A mullet and a rape whistle.
I was wondering today if there is any possible social ruse one could use to redeem oneself after a fuck-up as large as recounting a trip to the ER for condoms. I don’t know a lot about people…but that seems like it might be a conversational pit with no escape. I mean, unless your next words are “And that’s where I got my idea for the health-care reform that earned me billions.”
Actually, I don’t think that there’s any ending you could put on that story that wraps it up into a socially accepted dinner conversation. Pretty much the only possible conclusion is silence and nervous laughter. So I’ve decided that all my stories need to be wrapped up in a neat little bow. The kind that fosters hope that American values are still alive. Something wholesome and uplifting. It took me a while, but I’ve finally hit on the perfect ending to any story:
“And that’s why it was the best Christmas ever.”
“So the doctor said, ‘stop using spermicide and your dick won’t swell up and kill you.’ So I went home, threw out the condoms, took the pills and made a full recovery. And that’s why it was the best Christmas ever.”
Wow, that’s really snappy! Damn, I wish I thought to use this on my date! I would have at least gotten head. Oh well, I guess it’s for the best anyway: I wouldn’t her to think I was trendy and concerned about being cool. I guess the moral of this story is that sometimes, it’s better to be yourself, no matter how crazy or illegal it may be. And that’s why it was the best Christmas ever.
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