It’s springtime. It’s Saturday night. I’m drunk. I’m at Carol’s.
I apparently had made friends with an obese Latina that had matching boob tats of something in Spanish. She was wearing stretch pants and an oversized T-shirt. She was just my style.
I noticed an attractive-looking ginger across the bar. He had a beard. I go through phases with guys. Currently, I am really into guys who wear glasses. I was previously big on beards. I also went through a brief stint of dating gingers. This guy was a redhead AND had a beard.
Yes, please, thank you!
So apparently after noticing him noticing me I yelled across the bar to him, “I’m coming over there!”
My Latina friend must have not liked gingers, as she wagged her finger in my face to try to stop me from going over to introduce myself. I karate chopped her finger and darted around the bar. “Porque no?!”
I heavily plopped down next to Ginger and informed him, “I don’t care if you wanted me to come over here or not, but I’m sitting here and you’re talking to me!” Thankfully, he found this amusing.
Our conversation at the bar was pretty blurry. From what I was told I instantly went into how much I hated squirrels. Because that had a lot of relevancy to our current situation. It was also a very good way to get to know him.
As a sidenote, though, I seriously don’t like squirrels. And by don’t like, I mean I have a massive hatred. When I was younger we had a neighbor who felt that it was a great idea to feed the local squirrels peanut M&Ms. For all of you out there wondering if squirrels should ingest loads of sugar, the answer is no.
We used to have this one crazy squirrel who would attempt to get in our house. And I’m not talking ring our doorbell and politely inquire about troubling us to use our phone because he had a flat. No. I’m talking about a deranged monster that would jump from the railing on our stoop into our screen door. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
Over and over and over. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. I swear it would go on forever. I would sit in my house deathly afraid to go out in fear that this deranged squirrel would jump on me and bite me, giving me rabies or some form of Hepatitis. I feared that one day this squirrel would somehow break through into the house. I mean, how much squirrel jumping can one door take? Especially as it was likely installed by my father, which meant lots of duct tape and WD40.
Since then I have had a massive hatred of squirrels. Those beady eyes. Just watching you. Waiting. Little brains concocting various ways to kill you. Torture you. Leave you for dead.
Back to the ginger. The conversation regarding my hatred of squirrels then progressed to whether there was some sick pervert out there who had a squirrel fetish. I inquired, “Do you think there is any squirrel porn around these days???” He actually had quite a dark and twisted sense of humor, like myself. So we talked for quite awhile on what actual squirrel porn would entail and the various movie titles and actress names there could be. It was quite hilarious, actually.
Now, there are two things that are usually good topics of conversation when getting to know someone. Number one being rodent animals that you dream of exterminating. Number two being pornography.
As the night crept toward dawn, he suggested we go next door to get some Mexican food. I happily obliged, as Mexican food involves two of my major loves in life. Cheese and anything fried.
As we sat at a table and perused the menu, the waitress came to take our order. “What would you like?” she asked me in broken English.
“Hmmm. Let’s see here. Do you have anything on this menu that resembles his cock?” I asked straight-faced.
The waitress looked confused. And by confused I mean disgusted.
The Ginger, at a loss for words, looked quickly from the waitress to me then back to the waitress.
“Um. I’ll have the tacos, please” he responded.
I then proceeded to order the mini burritos. And, when he was in the bathroom, fell asleep at the table.
Can someone say sexy????
I’m pretty sure he was offended that I was hoping to eat something that resembled his cock and assumed his burrito was mini versus grande.
When dining with a strange man who you just had a 20-minute conversation with about murdering animals with your bare hands, at least if you’re going to order something off the menu that reminds you of their cock, do the right thing for their ego and order something that does not have “mini” in front of it.
And while you’re at it, seriously, don’t go to Carol’s alone. Ever.
This story is reason number 7644 why I’m convinced I should have my own reality TV show. I’m pretty sure I would be disowned from my family and would lose a lot of friends. But this also could mean some branding: books, apps, perfumes! I mean, who doesn’t want to smell like a drunken whore? Nothing is quite as enticing as the stench of rum, sweat, semen and cigarettes. Mmmmm.