Bad Date Hall Of Fame: The Gassy Pseudo Club Owner

Bad dates suck. But let’s face it, after a certain length of time, they can be pretty funny in retrospect. In honor of the grand tradition of laughing uproariously at disastrous dates, we’re taking submissions for The Bad Date Hall Of Fame. Send yours to tips@thefrisky.com and if we put yours up on the site, we’ll send you a pair of Frisky underpants. To get us started, read and weep over the bad date story submitted by reader Julia Tucker, after the jump.I met a very tall, pretty cute guy on a flight from New York City to San Francisco back in college, who was totally charming. He kept telling me how he owned a club in Boston, and how much he loved his (very wealthy) family and how he was hoping to open up another club in SF. He asked me out at the end of the flight and I quickly said yes. We actually went on one date that wasn’t bad at all, and so I agreed to a second one. This was a bad idea. He’d asked me to meet him at a martini bar, and then said we’d have a drink and go to the movies. (I believe it was Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon). Well, he was over an hour late to the bar (this was before they had cells) and I was all pissed off and leaving just as he came in—completely wasted. He proceeded to order more drinks, then asked me if I could pay for them. Then he suddenly told me he was wearing purple underpants, and asked if I wanted to see. I did not, but he pulled his pants down in public anyway, and lo and behold, there were the gayest pair of maroon BIKINI briefs on the guy. (Like, they had skimpy elastic on the side). I can’t believe we still went to the movies anyway. He stopped at Burger King on the way and ate two Whoppers while we were in line and burped onion in my face. But the gas didn’t stop there. He farted the entire way through the movie, giggling each time he did it. They were the hot kind, too. You know, sausage beefs. And do you remember how long Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was? I don’t remember the movie at all because my face was covered up with my sleeve as a makeshift gas mask. Needless to say, I never saw him again, except for when I bumped into him selling shoes in the men’s department at Neiman Marcus. Where he continued to work the rest of my years at college. Club owner my ass.

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