A Follicular Phalanx

24 Nov

My second date that night (after Horse Man) was with a guy who had struck me as a huge dweeb online.  His screen name was Well_Hungarian which was funny, but doubtful.  In his profile picture he appeared to be a scrawny man with a wide cat-grin and tiny, sharp teeth.  The pictures were accurate, and when I entered a small Belgian beer bar that smelled like Beanie Babies, I recognized him right away.  He was skulking in the corner, hunched over some sort of craft concoction, his salt and pepper tendrils shading his cheekbones from the dim bar lighting.

I had already consumed a few beers with Horse Man, so I wasted no time in striking up a lively conversation with “Craig,” the nerdy attorney.  He started off using big words and talking about his fancy job, but in two beers time had transformed into what appeared to be his alter-ego.  Craig’s accent, lingo, and whole demeanor changed as he went on and on about how much he loved big black ladies… and how many he had slept with, thanks to OKCupid.  It all started when he went on a blind date with a white girl a few months ago.  The second time they hung out she made him dinner and he was appalled by the lack of seasoning on her chicken and the fact that there was no coleslaw.  He pushed his subpar poultry aside and began to grope the chef.  As he was making his way down her neck to her chest, something got in the way of his tongue’s advances… “A follicular phalanx!”  I asked him to explain and he yelped “BITCH HAD HAIRY TITS!” loud enough for the whole bar to hear.  After the hair scare he began only dating black chicks who knew how to properly season their meats– bonus points if they lived in the projects, were a virgin, or had a fiance.  His words, not mine.

I was a little confused as to why he had wanted to go out with me if he was so into black women… until he started making comments about me being Jewish.  Apparently his new “thing” was sleeping with Jewish girls.  The only problem with this scenario is the small fact that I’m not Jewish.  I tried explaining that to him but he didn’t believe me, saying “I’m an attorney.  I know a Jewish girl when I see one.”  Later, when he offered me some of his pulled pork sandwich, I told him I don’t really eat pork and he exclaimed “I knew it, you ARE Jewish!”

We stayed at the bar for one more round despite the fact that, by this point, Craig totally grossed me out.  As I pondered whether or not he had hair plugs, he explained how he had slapped a man’s gut and screamed at him “Samuel L. Jackson style” on the train earlier because he was dropping bagel crumbs on him.  This guy was a maniac.  He asked what I was doing that weekend and I told him it was my birthday, so I had plans with friends.  He said what a coincidence, it had just been his birthday a few days prior.  I made the mistake of asking him what he did for it and he responded “Let’s just say that at 12am I was in a Dominican and by 12pm I was in a Cuban.”

Check please.


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