Do you remember those god awful days of blind dates and the many freaks that came with them? Now that you’re in that head space, imagine this.
You are set up with a boy called Bernard. You insist of mocking his birth name and calling him Bernie. After all what was his mother thinking giving him such a name with dating in the 21st Century looming in his future?
Your good friend, old and married tries to give him some date status and insists that he is probably really a Behr-Nahrd – with all the pomp and ceremony of a French accent that she is completely crap at. She also tells you not to be such a negative Nellie and that this could seriously be The One.
Bernie is late to the designated meeting place. He arrives, medical text books tucked under his arm in case the matchmaker of this date neglected to inform the datee of his medical student status. Douche. Strike 2. Strike 1 was the late.
Then imagine that Bernie is displeased with the coffee shop he chose and wants to move on to the Marrickville Markets to browse. 1.5km walk later you are there. Bernie needs a coffee but has no cash. You hand over $5. As you are ordering your tea you see Bernie wander off to a cake stand and promptly pull out his wallet and buy himself a muffin. At this point you are somewhat gobsmacked and start looking around for Ashton Kuchar whom you assume is going to jump out of nowhere any minute now and scream “Punk’d”.
And yes, he’s not a Bernie, he demands to be called Behr-Nahrd with the accent and all. He’s posh AND a medical student. Douche – oh yes, we’ve already mentioned that.
Let’s suffice to say that you are imagining correctly that the date was unsuccessful.
And as the final nail in the coffin imagine (just as you are recovering from the post traumatic stress associated with this blind date) you receive a letter in the mail two weeks later courtesy of the Marrickville Council to say you were doing 69 in a 50 zone and they’d like you to pay an additional $106 over and above the coffee you bought for the medical student who had cash in his wallet for a muffin. I’m betting that any sympathetic female judge will over turn that one on a good day in court. My good friend Candy was no doubt fleeing the scene as any intelligent female would. A disaster zone is a disaster zone after all.
A disclaimer and a cliche: To my single friends – there are so very many douche bags out there – male and female. But there are also some wonderful one’s that you will meet eventually. It’s about the journey before the destination on this one. And one day you might even find someone saying this to you as I did.
Love and light
Linking up today over at Essentially Jess with Team IBOT