Accents are, like, so exotic OR Why first impressions are better in person

Taco Tuesday - Taco Time revealed! Episode...3? ish?

We've worked our way up to the bridge, my friends. It's less of a verse and more of a snippet, but here is appearance of (undoubtedly STILL eligible) bachelor #3 in my song:

     "There was a fat, mouth-breathing Brooklyn dick..."

So, yeah. Dating sites. I've mentioned those before, right? And how I've been a member of more than a few different ones? Let's just say (although I'm sure I already have) that you don't always hit dating gold when you go mining in them there parts.

Enter the Mouth Breather.

I remember running across his profile and liking how outgoing his personality seemed. He mentioned he was from New York and that he had an accent and I was even more interested. Sucker for accents, over here. A few emails and online chat sessions later we exchanged phone numbers. Hearing the real live voice of the person you are scoping out is an important step, after all.

I wouldn't say he sounded dreamy, but his voice was manly and brisk, and his New Yorker twang (yes, I said twang, dammit) - paired with the personality that I gleaned from his profile - outfitted him as a distinct dating prospect. In my head. With my imagination. Which is wild and vivd.

And shockingly inaccurate.

Fat Mouth Breather (FMB, from here on out) and I enjoyed many late night chats on the phone - really enjoyed, actually (from what I remember?), which looking back seems improbable at best - and decided it was time to "test the connection". We settled on Village Inn, perhaps for the pie, probably not for the ambiance, but either way, in a fit of inspired wisdom I decided to invite my sister along. Call it... intuition.

My sister is the one who always tells me to "get out there", "give this guy/that guy a chance", and "you never know". So it was only fitting that I bring her along. Man, oh man, was I EVER glad I did.

Memory doesn't serve me well, here, but I must not have seen a picture of FMB, because when he wobbled through the door and weebled his way to the booth we picked out I was... not close enough to the door to run away. He was blocking my path. Hell, he was blocking EVERY path. And the look on my sister's face was priceless. She would have run with me. But for some sick, twisted reason we stuck it out.

Of course I was sitting next to FMB. On the outside, fortunately, but right beside. I could have been sitting sideways across his lap for as loud as his gape-mouthed breathing sounded to my ears. He didn't have much of a choice, really. I mean how else was he going to suck wind through those thick, blubbery cheeks and down into his (clearly adipose constricted) heavily laden chest? It wasn't just heavy breathing, though. It was heavy breathing followed by that slappy, nasal pop at the end of the exhale, with the little "nnnguh" sound. Every. Time.

I tried to make the best of the situation. I went to my happy place every time he breathed. So, you know, every 3 seconds or so. I listened attentively to his stories - he was some sort of sports team promoter or something like that (wow, that just came to me!) - responding with the appropriate listening signals when necessary. He just kept talking and talking. He was quite impressed with himself. So much so that the one time I tried to interject a bit of commentary he held up his tubby, grubby mitt IN MY FACE and shooshed me. SHOOSHED me, I tell you. My sister about lost it, and I just promptly zipped it for the rest of the meeting, which thankfully wasn't that much longer. And FMB drug his obese, self-righteous carcass out of Village Inn and thankfully out of my life.

You know what's weird? Telephones. Recording devices. Anything the takes the human voice and transmits it somewhere else. It is a fickle, fickle thing. I never heard that "nnnguh" noise on the phone. I also never heard a 300+ pound dickhead on the other end of the line, either.

But I escaped the incident no worse for the wear. Relatively unscathed. Protected, once again, by some miraculous yet cruel twist of fate that built up my hopes for a love connection only to dash them to ridiculous pieces along the banks of the Land of the Leftover Men.

I'm not bitter. Hell, I've gotten more mileage from these dating stories than I have from my little car since I moved out into the middle of nowhere. Word to the wise from tale #3? Let not thy mind be swayed by thine ears, they decieve thee as surely as crocodile tears.

Awww... waddn't that purty?

~h

NEXT TIME: ????? It's been awhile since I've blogged about my Hollywood hunk, but will he make an appearance this weekend? Inquiring minds want to know! Stay tuned!