Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Blind Date Feeding Frenzy

(Edited to add as of 02-10-05, that this date never actually occurred as planned and detailed below. The more I thought about it, the more I saw the bad moon on the rise, and so I promptly chickened out. My appologies to the parties was just safer this way.)

I am being set up on a blind date through an acquaintance at work, and so I have been invited to accompany another couple and some mystery woman to an ‘All-U-Can’ buffet at Casino Niagara at 1:00AM in the morning.

Apart from the obvious anxiety that I am already experiencing about being possibly set up with a girl who may either be related to Bigfoot or who may at least provide Prof. Leakey an instant Mr. Chubber's over having finally discovered a walking example of a Missing Link*, I am also nervous about having to appear “charming” or “interesting” while dining at a four-star late-night catered buffet spread. Not exactly what I would consider to be the preferred setting to bloom romance. But I’ll get back to that momentarily...

The good news is that I will now have the perfect excuse to finally clean up the apartment and reestablish order to my kingdom. A task I have meaning to complete for only the past six months now. I will need to slay all the dust bunnies roaming free on the living room range, peel away the stuck pubes from around the bottom of the toilet bowl like I was peeling a porcelain banana, clip the cats toenails so he doesn’t accidentally inflict any mortal wounds, sandblast the mould from the bathroom curtain, harvest all the dirty balled up socks under my bed that look like a crop of ripe funky cauliflower, and “power suck” the cat hair out of the throw pillows with an industrial vacuum. It will no doubt be a monumental undertaking that would even have Mr. Belvedere tossing in the dishcloth!

Now getting back to my concern regarding proper blind date ambiance; who’s fucking idea was it to plan this thing at a ritzy late night casino buffet anyways? I'm thankful for the opportunity to let my freak flag fly and strut my shit, but give a guy a break! AN 'ALL-U-CAN-EAT' BUFFET? I’m not so sure this is such a good idea for me, much less two people who will inevitably be both trying to make a positive impression on each other, and who will also be closely observing and scrutinizing each other for possible character flaws. It’s a “BLIND DATE” after all.

I guess my point is that an ‘All-U-Can’ buffet may not exactly be the ideal place for a large man like myself to really shine, if you know what I mean. Isn’t the ultimate purpose and prime directive of any successful Blind Date to be able to communicate and establish a common ground beyond “pass the paprikosh, will you darling?” We are going to be expected to humor each other and make efforts to flirt, amuse, humor, and generally get to know and enjoy one another's company. I expect this may be difficult when you’re in the process of stuffing your face with an entire Pu-Pu Platter with your mouth working complacently like a grazing hippopotamus.

“No time to talk. Must eat!”

I am worried that this situation is a potential blind date super nova ready to explode. Given that a buffet isn’t the most appropriate environment to impress potential mates, males in the presence of unlimited food are at an automatic disadvantage socially. Once our eyes lock on the prize, it’s hard to focus anywhere but on the mountains of food waiting at the buffet table that is laid out before us endlessly like a medieval Arthurian feast.

Oh yeah, this is shaping up to be a true dating disaster for sure! What if I just snap and loose my dignity and self control altogether and just begin attacking that buffet table like a starving hyena? How charming will I come across then?

“Get the fuck out of my way and let me at that salad bar, princes. I’m going to put a dent in that delicious motherfucker, post haste! So no talkie now sweetheart, Daddy’s chewing.”

Even if I pull off the unimaginable and manage to exercise complete self control over my primal feeding instincts and conduct myself with all the class and candor of an Elizabethan Lord, I would still doubt very highly that the atmosphere itself would lend itself to anything more “romantic” than buffing the water spots off each others silverware before dinner. I mean, how much joie d’viv can a casino buffet have exactly?

Loud-mouthed oil tycoons in ten gallons hats, tired looking professional girls touching up thier lipstick in dark corners, hypnotized widows staring at enlarged Keno screens, and Hung Chow Fat vacationing from Tokyo kareoking to Tom Jone's 'Sex Bomb' in the 'Players Lounge'. In the dining room, there would be groups of people hunched over mounded plates, all staring off into the florescent track lighting in silence, except for the steady grinding and chewing like a magnified drone of a plagued field of grasshoppers devouring some poor farmer’s crop; their mandibles working overtime with concentrated fixation. How hot is that?

Christ, by the time I’ve tired of stuffing fistfuls of hearty fare into my mouth, unloosed my belt buckel, and my breathing has slowed enough so that I can speak, what kind of flirt am I going to be exactly? I expect at that point that I’d feel about as frisky as road kill.

“Hey baby, break out the Jergin’s Lotion. I’m ready for dessert!”

I don’t know about you, but I’m sure I’m not about to feel too sexy and desirable after a four hour feeding frenzy. At this point in the date, it’d be damn near impossible to so much as even achieve wood if need be when you also happen to be suffering from extreme gastronomic pains, and your sphincter is working like the bellows at a Blacksmith’s shop.

* Not to mention that it also means I will have to miss my beloved 'Myth Busters' aired on the Discovery Network.


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