First off, a question for you monkeys. Regarding the Woodford and creatine combo I use to signal the end of cocaine hours and the beginning of premarket: I started preparing it in the bottles to save time but I'm having a clumping problem. Anyone else deal with same? I AM a fucking champ and a Wall Street genius, and I'm crushing it, but I'm not a god damn scientist, so if you've got suggestions, hold forth, motherfuckers.
Anyway, I thought about Applebees, or Olive Garden, or Shake Shack for my Tinder date, and I especially considered @Stringer Bell 's suggestion of Union Square TGI Fridays, because it's "centrally located" and pragmatism gets girls moist. But ultimately I ignored all of that and took this chick to B Dubs. Why? Wings. Beer. Sports. The aggressively high number of television screens that ensured I would not have to listen too closely to anything she said.
I don't want to make this too long of a story so I'm gonna skip to the part where Lincoln drives us home (Lincoln is the name of the guy the bank pays to drive the Lincoln). We get into the penthouse and the clothes are coming off. This is way easier than I thought it would be but I feel like I'm missing something important. Not my Rolex or anything like that, but as any burgeoning alcoholic can relate to, I definitely feel like I've forgotten about something and there will be consequences.
Now, for music. When I'm boning a girl I know, it's Rammstein all the way, but since this is just a one-off, and I want to be respectful and shit, I go for the Al Green. It works immediately and she's going down like the Dow after Brexit. I'm sitting back in the Eames, like I do, blissed out and dreaming up earnings plays while this girl goes to town, when all of a sudden, MY DICK IS ON FIRE.
Not literally, dumbass, but it's burning hot, like, oh, I dunno, how about BUFFALO WILD WINGS BLAZIN' SAUCE.
Turns out, I was so focused on the Mets game that I didn't notice this boring Midwesterner was straight up eating the hottest wings on offer like they were fucking Swedish Fish, wiping her face and hands with a wet napkin the size of a Post-It, leaving thousands of Scoville units worth of pure heat all over her mouth.
I pull her face out of my crotch, stop, drop and roll out of the chair to try and put out the fire with my hands, spending the next fifteen minutes in the fetal position on my living room floor, cupping my junk, without so much as looking at her again while she gets me an ice pack, calls an Uber and leaves to wait for it outside, saying "sorry" about 80 times, but "sorry" won't bring back the feeling in my balls.
Then I get a text the next morning saying "back in KC. had a really nice time. text u when Im in NYC again." No, no you won't.
So please, make me feel better. Regale me with your worst Tinder date stories (any stories are good, but especially with out-of-towners). Don't restrain yourselves. I need this.
Mod Note (Andy): Best of 2016, this post ranks #31 for the past year
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