Date Night, Cutlery and You

Hi, my name is Marcus WellIllBeDarnedSheActuallySaidYes. If there are two areas of study in this world that I have acquired a great wealth of knowledge that I now feel obliged to pass on to my fellow man, it is Digimon cards and dating.

We haven’t much time and I have far more important things to discuss, but I’d like to quickly dispel the fallacy of the two biggest concerns on date night, clothing and hygiene. Does your wardrobe consist exclusively of outfits worn onstage by Lady Gaga during her most recent world tour? No? Good. Then just use your best judgment. Moving on. Are you familiar with the grammatical and physical application of words like soap, shampoo, deodorant and baby powder? Good. Are you not an Australian rugby player who sweats by the gallon? Of course you’re not! Australian men have no need for this advice! They have built-in, the most potent anatomical aphrodisiac of all-time, an Australian accent. According to an article I strongly believe should be on WebMD, the almost magically hypnotic sound of the male Australian accent is the leading contributor to weakness in the knees of 99% of women. The only ones immune to the Australian mans’ charm are the miniscule population of elderly females who are hard of hearing:

Now, when life on Earth first began, the menu consisted of one thing, Wooly Mammoth. After a while, the commonality of this rendered the age-old question of “What’s for dinner?” pretty much useless and human communication disintegrated to your basic frustrated grunt and growl sounds. After some time,   place settings grew to consist of a single fork, knife and spoon. But thanks to the ever-increasing gluttonous nature of this country of ours, made apparent by the Big Gulp, the All You Can Eat Buffet and the Cheeseburger pizza, when you take a seat at almost any eatery, you are now greeted on either side by an armory of silverware. This is the leading cause of stress and anxiety that already accompany the customary first date jitters. I am going to walk you through piece by piece, the purpose and proper use of each utensil. 

The first fork on your left was used by King Triton to try to get Ariel to cover up before she went out for the night. But because parents nowadays are so weak in their stance, within a few minutes he hands the fork to her and she uses it later on to comb her hair at the dinner table for some reason. But let’s cut her some slack because she did change into a different species and teach  herself to walk in a matter of 92 minutes and quite frankly, I saw far worse behavior from members of the varsity football team at the dinner during my prom and these fellas have supposedly been human their whole lives.

The next fork on the same side allows you the option to stab away the hand of an overly anxious waiter who fails to acknowledge your existence for the half hour following your initial meal selection, but is readily hovering over you as you’re still picking at scraps.

If there is a third fork, please notify your waiter or waitresses immediately as this is exclusively to be used by Tom Hanks to catch fish in order to survive after his plane crash-lands on a deserted island

The first big circular spoon on the right is used to dig yourself out of the conversational crater that is The First Date Awkward Silence. If there is a moment where you’re both staring into each other’s eyes that doesn’t involve the dreamy telepathic planning of your future wedding just do what I do, ask her what she thinks of jelly beans.  

The spoon parallel to the first allows you the option to catapult peas, partially chewed meat, scalding hot water or whatever you desire at the Pre-K Pavarotti three tables over who feels as though he’s matured well beyond the confines of the high security high chair where he is being held against his will. And he has quite logically chosen to communicate this discovery by screaming his head off.

The knife on your right is to be used as a pointer when talking about the various interesting newspaper articles or paintings on the restaurant walls. This knife is specifically for people who use their hands a lot when they talk in order to make the people around them feel as though there is just one heated recollection and passionate retelling of the argument with mom separating them from death.

Next to that there is a slightly smaller knife that you probably thought was used to spread butter. Wrong. This knife is for male use only and is essentially a first date safety net in case you accidently nick yourself a bit while shaving. Here’s what you do in order to recover from this first date folly: Pick up the knife and because the young lady sitting across from you has probably been sketched out from the get-go, simply stare somewhat psychotically into her eyes for a brief moment and then alternate your gaze between her and the knife and then say “You look nervous. Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got ‘em?  

And listen, with regards to the drinking glass, when your trying to get every last drop, maneuvering between the ice cubes like some kind of thirst-driven game of tetras, you’re not a person saving money, you’re a rude and you sound like a broken humidifier, OK?  

Well, here she comes, good luck champ! I know what you’re thinking, but Marcus, we haven’t even talked about how to conduct myself or what to say to her all night. All we’ve talked about is the apparently mythological origins of the forks at Chili’s. Yes, and there’s good reason for that. Look at her. Now, look at yourself. You see, this is what we in high society refer to as a pity date. I mean, you made HER pick YOU up for Pete’s sake! She feels bad so she’s selflessly agreed to subject herself to the judgment of being seen out in public with you this one time. Your only hope with a young woman like this is to ask intellectual, thought-provoking questions like “If a florist works with flowers, what do you call the guy who put in the linoleum down in your kitchen? Now, if you don’t mind, while writing this script I’ve spent the past few days off of Facebook, not answering my phone, in my room with the lights off making sure I don’t subject myself to figuring out what happens in the Game Of Thrones season finale before I get the chance to watch it. I hear it’s to die for………….HA!

A Sure Sign I'm Getting Old

A sure sign that I am getting old is the fact that, in the morning, I now prefer talk radio to music. While I’d like to believe that this newly developed preference is simply because I want to stay abreast of what’s going on in the world around me, I have also come to the sad realization that a key element factoring in to my decision is people like Jason Derulo are able to have studio sessions where, based on the finished product, I can only assume they have an overly tired big rig truck driver repetitiously back up over their foot just as they open their mouths and make noises. This is then recorded and advertised to the world as music and for reasons unknown to me, is absolutely eaten up by the general public. 

Morning radio also oftentimes has an entertainment segment to keep us up to date on the most current struggles and hardships that have befallen the poor dear celebrities of today. For example, I recently heard a story that while on a hike, Taylor Swift had to walk down a mountain backwards in an effort to avoid getting her picture taken with some giddy passerby. Forget ticket sales, I think the new measuring stick for whether you’ve “made it” or not is that your perspective of leisure activities is forcibly and totally altered. I love writing, but speaking as someone who was born without and will never have depth perception a day in his life, if my writing ever hit Nicholas Sparks status and I had to start walking down mountains backwards, I’m out!

One particular morning, conversation on the radio centered on the history and recent eradication of was once known as the corporate lunch hour. This was the name given to a sixty minute period of time in which coworkers would assist each other in jimmying off their ankle bracelets, leave their places of employment and venture out to see the sights, sounds and general sense of spaciousness that the outside world had to offer. A group would head over to their favorite eatery making small talk with the very person they had been badmouthing to someone in the break room over by the coffeemaker not five minutes prior. However, in todays’ productivity driven world, this sacred time has metamorphosed itself into what is now a twelve second window of opportunity in which employees are encouraged to back away from their computers and ingest a corporate supplied pipette full of krill that has been pre-chewed by a penguin and then return to work.

One huge exception in my partiality to talk radio over music: David Allen Boucher on Bedtime Magic. If you haven’t taken the proper precautions by either A.) Sleeping for 20 hours beforehand to ensure that you are well rested or B.) Drinking twelve Red Bulls, nine Rockstar energy drinks and three cans of amp, I promise you that the smooth sexiness that results from David Allen Boucher vibrating his vocal chords, you will be absolutely soothed out of your mind and put to sleep quicker than a UFC fighter in a guillotine choke as your vehicle goes careening into a guardrail. And just to be clear, this isn’t meant to be anti-Magic 106.7 as much as it is pro-you staying alive. Because you have now been informed of this, if it were to occur, it would be entirely on your shoulders (and neck and back and possibly dashboard) as someone who knew the facts but went ahead and did what they wanted anyway. You know what that means? It means Barry Feinstein can’t help you because he only helps people who are injured through no fault of their own. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my 22 years on this green land havin’, blue water flowin’ and Arianna Grande inhabited land mass of ours it is this, if a man who concludes his commercials with a Mr. Clean style folded arms pose and a stern look which simultaneously conveys “Don’t worry, I gotchu” and “Don’t EVER mess with me!” can’t do anything to help you, you’re screwed…….What were we talking about again……