Roger Dodger

I’d been talking to Captain Dodger for about two weeks. He seemed legit, despite having a 17 year old kid at 40 that I didn’t really question (ladies, go ahead and question this). We had pretty good conversation, even to the point where I enjoyed hearing from him. He was your standard pretty/white boy/could possibly be in a boy band circa 98 degrees guy, but given the conversation, I thought, “Hey he has a brain”. Also, THE INTERNET IS A LIE.

He tossed me his number, which I don’t normally exchange before meeting someone, but I said fuck it and asked him out for a drink. He took four hours to respond (prior grievances reared their ugly head — GUYS, get your shit together). I gave the benefit of the doubt because I’m awesome (or dumb). We meet.

His greeting consisted of a blank stare and creepy smile for about seven awkward seconds before I say “Are you auditioning for a Colgate commercial”? He laughs like a buffoon, so I hug the man-child and say hi to reduce the tension.

Approximately 3.5 minutes into the date, he touches/pokes/leaves his finger on my leg and says “You have a hole in your jeans”, referring to the distressed denim of my bottom half, which is quite obviously torn on purpose. Gosh you’re so smart. I reply with, “Don’t touch my leg please”. He proceeds to scoff and look at me like I’ve got 57 heads, “What, really”?! I mean yes, unless you want a black eye *shrug*.

Unwanted touching – Strike 1

He eagerly brings up Jameson shots, which I initially say hell no to. He scoffs at me (again), as if turning down his offer of the inhibition lowering serum is completely absurd. OK fuck it, if he’s gonna be this much of a douche right off the bat and he’s paying, I’m gonna do it, because this date already sucks ass, I like whiskey, and I enjoy a good disaster story. He also clearly thinks plying me with alcohol will get him somewhere. He knows not of my skills. Shot taken. Cheers! Fake smiles. He proceeds to punch me in the arm like we’re frat bros. Again, I say please don’t just touch me. He scoffs. For the third time.

“What kind of car do you drive”? Really? That’s one of the first things you want to know about me? I tell him. “Oh you’re fancy”. (I’m not, but I did earn what I drive). “What color is it”? I explain it’s a dark charcoal color, slightly metallic. “Grey is the most boring color”. Really. I feel no further need to defend my choice, given he likely drives a 2000 Honda Civic with missing hubcaps.

I turn back to the TV and at this point he’s overly excited about LA baseball, and has decided he is going to try to convert me to a Dodgers fan (I bleed pinstripes, fucker). I told him I was born and raised a Yankee, and will be one for life. He laughs and shakes his head in a manner in which I conclude he’s thinking, “She has no idea what she’s talking about and will gladly bandwagon jump onto whatever team her dude wants her to.” I will tell you, I know those kinds of girls, and those hoes aint loyal. “How long have you been in LA?! You should be turned already!” Slaps my arm.

Multiple unwanted touches and assuming I follow the crowd = Strike 2, 2 outs, no one on.

Captain Dodger proceeds to go on about how the music sucks (it was Prince FFS) and begs the bartender to play Justin Beiber. You read that correctly. “Kathryn, you don’t like JB?!” (this is after questioning my musical tastes and range – being “only 34″…mmkay).

Also, Kathryn? Who the fuck?

“You can call me Kathie, like I introduced myself, or Kat. Also, I prefer real musicians”. “Kathryn, he has a good voice”! (I look at him in utter disbelief, at both the horrible musical taste and his insistence on calling me Kathryn, which I never even confirmed was my full name). He carries on with, “I go by (insert full name here) not (insert shortened name here), why don’t you go by Kathryn”? Nudges my arm again. I think he’s testing me to see if I’ll follow through on my fist-to-face threat. He’s clearly never met an Italian from New Jersey.

For his next charade, he pulls out a fidget spinner. He asks me to time his spin on his phone. Wide-eyed, I hit the button. “No no it’s not timed right! Do it again”. I do it again. “No you have to be precise”, to which I respond, “I could not give any less of a shit about this”.
Him, super annoyed: “Ya know, if you play your cards right…”

Strike 3 — Thank u, next.

If I play my cards right?! I didn’t even let him finish the sentence before I interrupted him by summoning the bartender to pay for my drink and stating, “I have to get going, I have to get up early and write”. Meaning a 1 a.m. rehashing of this godawful encounter.

I leave and head to a local bar closer to home (which is when I realize this first date was also the site of another ill-fated meeting. I should broaden my horizons). Bouncer at the door: “How are you”?
“I just had THE worst date”. “Vodka or Whiskey”?
This guy gets me.

Thank the Universe for buy two get one free happy hours to ease the pain of a mind-numbing social experience. At least I didn’t end up in jail for assault?

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