Dear. God. Buckle in, ’cause I have got a GOOD story for you.
Today, I spent about, oh… an hour? An hour and a half? Anyway, I spent some time with a guy who is… how can I put this… the most obnoxious human being I have ever had the displeasure of spending an afternoon with. Seriously. He was so rude, and so asinine, that it was literally HILARIOUS. Strap in, folks.
His name is Rick-Ee. Yeah, he spells it Rick, dash, doulbe E. His name is Richard, but he thinks that Ricky-Ee is creative I guess, and not completely aestheticaly unappealing. And on the topic of aesthetically unnapealing, let’s talk about his appearance. He’s actually a very cute guy. He has beautiful eyes, sweet face, nice, average-slim body. Unfortunately, due both to his horrible attitude and a natural ineptitude for dress and attire, he is the most unnatractive guy I think I’ve ever been out with. And I will pretty much fuck anything with a penis.
So let’s just dive in, shall we? We met on Plentyoffish, a site that has brought me nothing but misfortune up till now, and he sends me a message that I think said something about how I seemed like a really great person, but in a much more forward, creepy, you-could-be-my soul-mate kind of way. And in his “about me” section, he details some rather unnecessary information about a relationship he was in, complete with the “he cheated on me with so-and-so” and “he took my virginity,” like, stuff that you should not be telling people before they’ve even had a chance to speak with you. And I’m an open book, but I have enough tact not to hash out the details of all my failed relationships in my description box. He also, in said description box, says that he’s been engaged SEVEN TIMES, all within four months. And then later when I talked to him, I find that the people he was “engaged” to all lived in other states, only one of them did he ever see in person.
But this all back-story, let’s get to the action. He gives me his number in his first message, before ever even receiving a response from me, telling me to text him. Since I have no cell phone that is pretty much an impossibility, so I told him I could call and talk if he’d like. He clears that, so I call him in and within five minutes he’s saying “let’s chill.” Well, we’d spent the last five minutes in silence, while I scurried around hunting for a conversation and he said little to nothing, so I did not want to “chill” with him. Luckily I got out of it… that day.
Today he asks if I want to “chill” again, and I agreed, not really wanting to because my brief experience with him already had shown me that he was an immature kid with whom I wanted no acquaintance, but I decided to just throw caution to the wind and try it anyway. It was a mistake, but it turned to be a mistake so heinus that it’s hilarious. He shows up at my house, after not being able to follow directions to get here, and pulls up in my driveway in this old, beat up piece of shit car. Since I’m not a car person, I can’t tell you what it was, but just believe me that it was not pretty.
As he rolls down his window (hand crank, by the way, no power windows, or air conditioner for that matter, in this thing), I see, from the top down: a mohawk, three lip rings, placed in such a matter that he looks like he made out with some barbed wire, a tongue ring, an earring with Grr from Invader Zim in his left ear (playing into the stereotype? Surely not…), and the top of his right ear pierced with a bar through it.
He lazily mutters, “You ready?”
I hop in the car with him, avoiding the scared looks from my sister who caught a glimpse of him and clearly thinks him some childhood monster here to eat us both alive. As we pull out of the driveway (and the term “pull out” here is really quite a stretch, since he drives like a manic, and his car sounds like it’s exploding every two minutes), I begin to notice his tattooes.
One is simple enough: the word “Pride” in rainbow letters. The others are not so endearing. Reptar, the dinosaur from the Rugrats, is tatooed onto his leg. The words “Rick-Ee Razzor”, with a drawing of a razorblade, adorn his arm, along with the letter “R” made to look as though it were ripped into his skin with a knife, with droplets of blood oozing from the cuts. There was also a fox tattooed on his leg, and a couple others that I can’t remember. There were a total of six rings amongst his ten fingers, the nails of which were painted an ugly shade of marroon, along with his toes, however both were badly done in the first place, and chipped, the toes so badly that the ugly marroon was barely discernable. He also speaks in so low a volume that he’d be impossible to hear even without the sound of wind rushing past because the windows are down to compensate for the lack of air condition.
I have no idea where we’re going, and since he only speaks when spoken to, and answers my question about our destination so quietly that I can’t understand anything he’s saying, except for the words “brake fluid,” I just allow myself to be taken wherever he pleases, and we find ourselves at Walmart. A romantic scene for a first date, to be sure.
As we wander through Walmart, he begins to complain. He enjoys complaining. It seems to be his favorite activity.
“Our Walmart is much better than this.”
“That fabric in the fabric section looks really cheap.”
“They obviously haven’t remodeled this Walmart. This is the old layout of the store.”
I watch with boredom and he tries to find brake fluid, and even offer to carry the windshielf washing fluid he picks up, so as to be a gentleman. He thrusts it into my hands uninterestedly and continues focusing on car accessories he cleary knows little about. By the time we get out to the car in parking lot, where it’s at least ninety degrees, he decides he’s going to add the brake fluid right now, as we’re standing in the parking lot. He spends about ten minutes trying to get the hood to pop open, and when it finally does he fumbles to open the bottles (those little pieces of tinfoil you have to peel off were a very complex safety mechanism for him to get through) and pour them in to their vairous places.
So when we finally hop back into the trainwreck of a car, me with sweat dripping down my face, we head toward Dairy Queen, but that’s closed. As we’re pulling through the parking lot, he complaing of course, how dare Dairy Queen be closed when he wants ice cream, I think to myself,I don’t care where we go, as long it’s NOT the Waffle House.
“I’m gonna get me some WAFFLE HOUSE.”
We get into the Waffle House and find a seat, and he orders a chicken salad and a waffle. While we’re waiting for his food, I tried about seven times to strike up a conversation, and of course he refuted my attempts masterfully, speaking only complaints in a quiet, uninterested voice, his eyes glazed over and a permanent look of apathy painted on his face.
He notices a person on the other side of the restaurant and scoffs. “I hate watching other people eat, it’s disgusting.” When his chicken salad comes to the table is when it really starts getting good. He glances down at it, apparently horrorstruck, and mutters:
“Oh. My God.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“There’s MEAT on it.”
I’m a bit confused. “Yeah… it’s a chicken salad. You did order a chicken salad, right?”
“I’m not talking about the chicken.” he says as he points at little pieces of ham in his salad.
“It’s just ham. Chicken’s meat too.”
To which he replies, with a serious attitude and full confidence:
“Chicken is NOT meat. It is POULTRY.”
I just keep thinking, Stay calm. Just let him eat his food, and then we’ll be out of here and I can get home.
Almost as though the Universe is enjoying this cruel joke that has been played on me, he eats like a rabbit. First, he takes the edge of his fork and gingerly prods every single piece of ham out of his salad, eats the chicken with his fingers, and spears the rest, complaining about every ingredient in the salad in perfect sequence.
“I don’t know what these little red things are, I don’t usually eat them.”
“Ugh, I’m getting sick of these carrots.”
His waffle has not yet come. He begins on the waffle.
“Where’s my goddamn waffle?”
A maximum of three seconds passes between each waffle comment.
“I ordered a fucking waffle.”
“If that waffle’s not here by the time I’m done with my salad, I’m not paying for it.”
“Fuck it, I don’t even want the waffle anymore.”
“Look at ’em, talking, instead of making my waffle.”
Our waitress comes over to our table. He looks at me and commands in a whisper, “Ask about my waffle.”
Ask about your own goddamn waffle!!
But I did ask, and she went to get it ready.
“I’m about to cause a scene,” he says.
I put my head in my hand, unable to take much more of this. “Please don’t.” I implore him.
“I will. I’ll do it. I’m just like my mother, I will cause a fucking scene.”
He also included that famous line that I’ve heard so many people use: “People think I’m a bitch, but I just tell the truth.” That’s what all bitches say.
The waffle comes. Thank God, maybe this will be over soon. He looks down at the waffle and prods it with his finger.
He opens the butter.
“This butter is half melted.”
He spreads the butter.
“This butter will not spread.”
He grabs the syrup.
“This syrup bottle is sticky. That’s unsanitary.”
He pours the syrup.
“I put too much syrup on it.”
He cuts into the waffle.
“This waffle is too easy to cut into. I don’t think it’s done all the way.”
He starts eating the waffle.
“If this waffle gives me food poisoning or something, I am sueing THIS specific store.”
He didn’t EAT the waffle so much as cut it into tiny, minute pieces, almost as though determined to take as long as possible to eat it. Suddenly he asks me for a penny. Confused, I fumble in my pocket and hand him a penny. He sets it down on the table. “That’s her tip,” he says.
When at last it’s time to go, he pays and I tell him to go on out to the car, I’ve got to go to the bathroom. When he leaves, I tip the waitress three dollars (mind you, I ordered NOTHING) and follow him outside.
On the ride home he was playing Blood on the Dance Floor (naturally) and a CD of dubstep songs (or, as I like to call dubstep, reversed-mechanical-techno-fart-music). At long last, we arrive at my house. I smile sweetly and say “Call me,” before rushing inside to call my best friend and tell him all about him.
I couldn’t help it. I had to post about it on Facebook. It was too hilarious not to. I know that makes me sound like an immature bitch, and surely I was probably being one, but I wasn’t exactly specific. I said, and I quote:
“ZOMG. Most rude, obnoxious person I have ever had the displeasure of spending an hour with. NEVER AGAIN, Jesse.”
He of course sees this and confronts me. I admit to him that it was about him, and that the “date,” if you want to call it that, was painful. My computer happens to die at that moment, and when I log back in I’ve been deleted and blocked (thankfully), and this message was waiting for me in my inbox:
(Note: the message was not divided into paragraphs, indeed as you will see, punctuation is practically nonexistant for Rick-Ee, but I have seperated it into segments so that it will be easier to read.)
“Well I can’t help that you was quiet, I was annoyed from earlier today & somewhat tired. Now, it was rude of you to post something like that up about someone, rather than telling the person. I’m a bitch. If you can’t handle that, then feel free to leave.
“I don’t have time for ugly ass people as yourself. That’s one reason why I didn’t let you get to know me. So as of now, I’m leaving your ugly ass now. So… Sine I’m rude & obnoxious, I will prove to you hat I’m a fucking bitch. No one can compare to my bitch side.
“So yeah, never have ANY type of contact with me till you know who I am & how I act & untill you can change your worbdrobe to something more pleasurable & your apparance more decend. I could care less if you have told me, rather than posting it up by being imature. So, good’bye fat ass”
Such eloquence. None can compare to his bitch side, indeed.
It might seem immature to post about all of this, but I mean, it was such a hilariously bad afternoon, that I just can’t help it. This is entertainment at it’s finest.