They say nobody knows you like your friends. That is, until they try to set you up on a date with somebody. Then it seems like they only know a weird caricature of you. I've been on blind dates with girls who just want me to fight other dudes for them, cry about exes, or just smoke weed while nude and watching Golden Girls—grooooooss.

Lazy sheepdog laying on the couch with crotch open
Sorry bud, it's just not happenin.
Way back in the day, my buddy Chenz wanted me to hook up with this girl with huge cans named Kiara. Chenz and I hit some party at NYU. After I drank a few 40-ouncers, I gathered some liquid courage and started flirting with her. It turns out we both liked boozing and screwing, so things looked pretty good.

Chenz ended up bolting to either play bass or masturbate—or is that the same thing? Kiara and I held some hands, kissed a little bit, and started to get drunker and hornier. Then she killed the mood and said, "I have to go to my friend Matt's house. After two years, I think he still has a crush on me so I promised I'd come. He's, like, my best friend. You'll like him, he's a really nice guy."

Ouch. Obviously, this poor bastard was in the "friend zone," which is really the shittiest thing a girl can do to you besides cheating on you. The "just friends" guy basically listens to the girl of his dreams cry about shitty dickhead boyfriends (like me) and then gets ditched the minute that shithead sweeps her off her high heels again.

I call these best friend guys "sheepdogs." A sheepdog watches over the little sheepy (the girl) so big bad wolves (like me) don't eat them up and blow them away. At least her gay best friend gets to go dancing with her and maybe help her braid her hair.

As I crawled into bed with wet feet and empty bowels, I said, "Hey there, up for round three?"When we arrive at his dorm, it's obvious I'm not wanted in the situation. He's trying to sit next to her and talk about how and why he never imbibes in drugs or alcohol, unless, of course, she wants to.

Kiara and Matt talked about this and that. I wasn't really paying attention. I busied myself looking at his wall of Simpsons toys and trying to find Tetris on his graphing calculator.

Then the "Who's the Bigger Man?" competition started.

"How much you bench?" Matt asked, puffing out his chest. At this time, I worked in a weight room, which basically meant I pumped iron, talked about pumping iron, or watched people pump iron for a solid $9 an hour.

"I'm working my way up to 300 pounds. I think I can do it by the end of the summer? (I did, once.) How about you?"

"See, lifting weights is stupid. Look how dumb this guy is! What did you get your degree in, exercise physiology or something?"

"Um, English literature?" And looking back, an English degree is totally dumber than exercise physiology.

"How much do you even know about Kiara?"

"I know she's cool, she's funny, and she's from Vermont," I laughed. I was a little too drunk to care.

"It's New Hampshire actually," he chided.

"You know, I always got those two mixed up in grade school. Oh well."

"Do you know Kiara's favorite color?"

"Nope, but I guess it's either pink or purple or yellow."

"Ha. It's fuchsia. Wrong again, Lunkhead. This guy doesn't even know you, Kiara. Kiara?"

At this time, she was playing with my balls, but she got distracted.

"Oh wow. Something's different. Did you get more Simpsons dolls?"

"Ahem. They're action figures, not dolls. And yes. I found Treehouse of Horror Ned Flanders as the devil and Homer as a Bigfoot. That rounds my collection out at 31 different action figures. Hey Lunkhead, do you know who this is?" Matt the Sheepdog said while pointing at a Simpsons poster.

I grumbled as I tried to figure out what type of underwear Kiara wore. I fumbled in her pants and felt something lacy. Thongs. Yes. Awesome. "I don't know, maybe Mr. Burns?"

"Hah. Lunkhead. It's Smithers. Do you even watch the show?"

"I used to."

"What, you don't think the series is good anymore? You casual Simpsons fans are all the same! You think just because a few episodes are bad here and there, that the entire seasons are bad. Well, let me tell you something. Conan O'Brien is never coming back to write for the show, so deal with it."

"Conan wrote for The Simpsons?"

"Jesus Christ, Kiara! He doesn't even know about Conan? Hello!?!? The monorail episode."

"Oh yeah, I think I saw that one. It was funny."

"Name the company that funded the Springfield Monorail…"

"I don't know. I'm bored?"

"Fine, here's an easy one. Are you paying attention, Kiara?" She wasn't. She was kind of dry humping my boner with her jeans, which kind of hurt and kind of felt good. "Fine. Who's this?" Matt said, pointing to a red-headed cartoon guy with a pitchfork.

"I don't know, Tollbooth Willie?"

"Lunkhead! It's Groundskeeper Willie! Tollbooth Willie is from Adam Sandler's first album."

"Oh yeah, I liked that one. He says ‘fuck' a lot. Right?"

"Kiara, what do you see in this guy?"

"I don't know," she put her hand up my sleeve. "Big arms? We have to go. Now. Nice seeing you, Matt."

"Awesome. Check you later, Mark."

"My name is Matt, you Lunkhead. Kiara, wait. I have Season 5 on DVD right here. We can—"

"I have to go, Matt. I'll IM you tomorrow, ‘kay?"

"You can IM me tonight. Can't you?"

"I'll try."

"Have fun with your cartoons and toys bud," I winked as I closed the door.

"Simpsons is the definitive show of our—" The door magically slammed behind me. I'm pretty I did it. But maybe little trivia boy's rage did it.

Kiara and I made out in the cab, in the elevator, and even in her dorm. We did some adult things that probably couldn't be shown on a cartoon, even one as risqué as The Simpsons.

In case you were wondering, lots of malt liquor and protein shakes don't mix great. So in the morning, I needed to take a giant crap. I'd been to Kiara's type of dorm before. Four rooms with two bathrooms. I just walked in, felt something wet on my feet and ignored it since I figured it was just from when I went to the bathroom earlier and my drunken piss missed the stupid toilet. Then I took a huge monster dump.

Some people will tell you that a nice AM crap is the best thing about waking up. I disagree. I think it's morning sex. As I crawled into bed with wet feet and empty bowels, I said, "Hey there, up for round three?"

"Give me a minute. You remembered not to use the closest bathroom to us, right? The toilet's broken and my roommate is using it for some art project."

My heart just about killed my boner. "Um. Sure I did."

We enjoyed some more adult time, even though I mostly worried about the toilet situation. I figured, "Well, at least she'll remember some half-decent sex."

After we finished and I woke up from a little post-coital nap, I surveyed the scene. Nothing too weird in her room except for clothes everywhere and some rainbow-colored footprints. Weird?

I threw on my clothes and told her I was going to freshen up and get to work (which I didn't have).

Just to see the damage, I checked out the bathroom. It was bad, but not what I expected. My huge duke was still in the toilet and there was nothing I could do. The real mess was on the floor. It wasn't shitwater, but I thought it was at first.

I realized where the rainbow footprints came from. Me. Having walked all over roomie's art project. Which was a three-foot by three-foot canvas oil painting. Drying on the floor. Not my pee as I originally thought. But, I probably also drunkenly and accidentally pissed on it after one of our sex sessions.

I walked back in, kissed her on the forehead, wrote down a fake number, and told her to call me, even though this was before I owned a cell phone.

Let's review: An angry best "just friend." A ruined toilet. An even more ruined roommate's art project.

Yeah, I'm probably the victim of a few gypsy curses because of all this.

See new PIC posts via Twitter or Facebook.

Sign up for satire writing or improv classes at The Second City - 10% off with code PIC.