Have you ever asked yourself whether your town contains a single man who
graduated college (even high school would be nice), doesn't chain smoke, hasn't
shit out seven children before he could legally drive, and hasn't spent the
better part of his twenties in the clink? Well, after years of meticulous
studies, I've found the answer is no. No. No. No. Call off the search. Take down
the road blocks. Stop wasting your time. Any man you meet in your little dot on
the map will make you poor, miserable, and a star in his trailer park soap
opera.
Fellas, next time you meet a lady, please refrain from shamelessly boasting
about what a giant failure you are. She'd rather staple her labia to her thigh
than hear one more bozo wax on about his sodding baby's mama—and chances are she
doesn't care about your
baby either. Let me reiterate: NOBODY cares about your baby mama drama,
nobody. No way, no how—not a single person besides you, and even you must be
sick of hearing yourself talk about it. Whatever girl you are torturing today is
toying with the idea of confessing to anal leakage just so she can get the hell
out of your miserable conversation.
"Next thing I knew we were making out in an alley, like the
classy lady I am. Phase 1 of my study was going as planned."
After years of listening to such jabbering and trying hard not to
immediately brand you a worthless goblin and forcing myself to keep
an open mind, I am done, done, done, finished!! Never again will you
find me saying things like, “Oh, you dropped out in 7th grade to
focus on your band, that's cool.” I'm exhausted and I can't pretend
anymore: you are all losers.
Ladies, you must be wondering, "Where Alli? Where can I go to escape the
Kevin Federlines of this world?"
Don't worry, a better life awaits you, in the nearest charming city with a
$10,000+ higher median household income. In my hometown of Napa, California,
this place is St. Helena, California. That’s where my hetero life mate,
Sarah,
went one evening to stake her claim. There, she met a very handsome corn-fed
white boy,
made out with him, gave him her digits, went home, and promptly dismissed
the idea of any follow-up on his part. A couple days later, however, this boy
called, and asked her on a date. Upon hearing this I asked, “Like, to White
Castle where you'll blow him next to a urinal, then hitch hike home because he's
left without you?”
“I don't know, I guess I'll find out.” replied Sarah, her eyes sparkling with
anticipation.
The date went as follows: the gentleman caller drove from St. Helena to pick
her up in Napa, and they went to a fancy, expensive restaurant, where he paid,
then they made out in the parking lot and he dropped her off. During their
romantic conversations Sarah learned that he had no children (and, consequently,
no baby's mama to blather on endlessly about), no drug habit, no tattoos, no
track marks, no restraining orders, and no DUIs.
Sarah called and reported this news to me. I was awestruck. Suddenly, I felt
my chest seizing up. I dropped the phone, clutched my heart, collapsed, and
abruptly died. The barbed wire gates of hell opened and Satan's husky voice
boomed, “It's not your time, Alli. You must inform women of Napa of this higher
caliber of man meat. See to it that no Napa degenerate ever gets laid again.”
“Yes, my lord,” I graciously replied. I then curtsied and skipped out the
gates as the flames sizzled my back fur.
I came to and found myself in a body bag. “Wait! I'm still alive!” I
screamed. The coroner unzipped the bag and gave me a ride home. How nice of him.
I decided this St. Helena man meat study would require some
some first hand research, so off I went. My mission was clear: I would hook
one of these corn-fed white boys, see if I could get a date, and then test
whether Sarah's good fortune was a mysterious fluke.
Fifty dollars and twenty minutes later we arrived at Ana's Cantina. The booze
was flowing and before you could say “Ryan Seacrest's vagina” the bartender
announced last call. I was sitting at a table tragically alone while Sarah had a
smoke outside. Suddenly, I was approached by a handsome young man named Willard
(sorry, Willard, but you can't fraternize with celebrity journalists if you want
to keep your name out of the papers). Next thing I knew we were making out in an
alley, like the classy lady I am. Phase 1 of my study was going just as planned:
Willard was clearly in love with me.
In the distance I could faintly hear marriage vows being recited. I thought
nothing of it and continued to make out. Then my suitor stopped to ask me if I
was a Seventh Day Adventist. Although I found this bizarre, I was willing to
overlook webbed feet as long as he didn't utter those two detestable words:
“baby's mama.” I mumbled something about my dedication to Lucifer, then our taxi
arrived.
Sarah and I hopped in and began the long trek back to Napa. Before passing
out in my lap she slurred something about an ordained minister/Jesus Christ
look-a-like marrying her to a gay man outside the bar. I thought it best to not
remind her of this in the morning.
Willard called the next day to invite me to a party, which is code for,
“Alli, my heart will shatter if I don't see you tonight, but I am too
intimidated by your beauty to ask you on a date.” I declined and informed him
that I'd be very busy with a
Golden Girls marathon, a bucket of frosting, and my trusty jug of liquid
Vicoden. Willard continued to text message me perverted Bible verses the rest of
the day. It was delightful!
I had faith in my man meat theory, so I decided to wait it out. And I was
right! Willard asked me out the next day. Suddenly I was having doubts. Could
“beer goggle nighttime Alli” compare to “sober daylight Alli”? I think not. It
was time to call the plastic surgeon. I picked up the red telephone on my desk
and scheduled an emergency face lift and a vagina-plasty. With my confidence
renewed, I was ready to carry on with my investigation.
Willard offered to take me on a formal dinner date, but I opted for drinks
instead, because, let’s face facts, I'm a filthy tramp; a sauced makeout sesh
sounded like much more fun than
awkward first date terror.
The next day I awoke with the sun to commence the 8-hour grooming process. A
spray-on tan was mandatory. Unfortunately, I had a violent reaction to the
tanning solution, so the skirt I had planned on was out of the question. With
time running out, I had no choice but to consult the hamper. I swatted away
spiders and cockroaches and picked up those jeans. You know the ones I'm talking
about. You couldn't believe you wore those filthy things last night, but wearing
them again today should be against the law. The jeans that are so dirty they
make your skin itch. The jeans that want to crawl off of you and commit suicide.
By the time I was ready to go, I had commingled no less than four stenches: new
clothes smell (from a new sweater), spray-on tan (a musky odor), atrociously
filthy jeans (a smell similar to decomposing bodies), and three gallons of
perfume to cover up the two aforementioned smells.
I telephoned my friend Gertrude for some final words of wisdom. Unfortunately
she was off to an all-girl movie party and had no time to talk. My heart sank
and my eyes welled up with tears. I wanted to ditch my stinky binding clothes
and join the pajama clad slobs. Then I thought back to Satan and his wise words.
How disappointed would he be if I didn't go on this date? No, this wasn't just
about me. Clams of Napa were depending on me and I couldn't let them down.
Willard and I went to 1351 and drank lots and lots of booze. If you think
Napa is dead on a week night, check out St. Helena some time. Tumble weeds
drifted down Main Street and beside us, the bar contained but one patron
fiddling with a Rubik’s cube and wearing a helmet. His name is Patches and
apparently he's there every night.
With nothing else to do, we headed to Willard’s place. During the walk I had
fond thoughts of our evening at his place. First, we’d pet the alligators in the
moat around his castle, sipping tea across a giant mahogany table similar to the
one from Kim Basinger and Michael Keaton's first date in Batman. Then we'd have
cocktails in front of the 7-foot fireplace and talk about the perils of being an
exorbitantly wealthy bachelor looking for love in the big city. Perhaps his
witty and sarcastic butler, Alfred, would roll his eyes when Willard talked
about his lonely nights with no one to snuggle with but his giant bags of cash.
Au contraire. We crept through the dark living room so we wouldn't wake
whatever creature was sleeping on the couch, then slowly opened the door to his
room. Behold, a sight I never thought I would see: there was no bed… not even a
stick of furniture except for
a Pilates mat with a single Ninja Turtle sheet and matching pillow. I was
horrified. Had we taken a wrong turn and ended up in the servant's quarters? Why
would he give his servants such shabby accommodations? Where was Alfred?
I was at a crossroads. “Do I run screaming out the door? Or say farewell to
my dignity and snog Willard beneath the Ninja Turtle sheets?” The eleven vodka
tonics insisted on option two. But as soon as I hit those turtle sheets, I dozed
off.
Around 4AM I woke up, stone sober and furious with Satan for leading me to a
Pilates mat shrouded in a Ninja Turtle sheet. I could feel Donatello's
judgmental gaze beneath his purple headband. It was as if all the Turtles were
laughing at me, deriving their power from the very act.
So, what is the moral of the story? In life you must make choices: guns or
butter, sobriety or hangovers, male attention or lots of food, horrifying
sleeping conditions or
baby mama drama, rock or hard place. And sometimes you have to realize that
buttering your toast stone sober in the morning after sleeping on a rock isn’t
so bad when you consider your reaction to a pregnancy test after getting drunk
and sleeping with three men the previous weekend.
