So, on Wednesday I get a message on Facebook from some girl I kinda know. She asks me if I’m dating anyone. She’s cute enough, so I tell her that I’m single. She proceeds to tell me that a friend of hers saw something funny that I posted and asked her to ask me out for her. I get a link to this other girl’s Facebook page and I’m digging what I see. She looked like a high school cheerleader that bullied kids at lunch, that girl that knew she could get by on her looks and treat people like dirt; my type.
So I send this new girl, Karen, a message. She responds with glee and wants to meet up sometime soon. We chat a bit and plan something for Friday night. So far everything is going great. The victim rarely approaches me first.
That afternoon I get to our planned meetup spot and order myself a double of whatever rye they had. I’m on my A-game with an empty stomach and a couple fingers of whiskey. I shoot the shit with the bartender a bit when I notice a disturbance in the force.
It honestly felt like that scene in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex makes it’s first approach and you can see the vibrations from its movement in your drink. I drain my drink, in fear that it will be my last, and hear the bar stool next to me squeal like the Titanic making contact with an iceberg. I look to my right and see a girl that resembles the picture from Facebook, but she’s 150 pounds heavier and looks demented and greasy.
She flashes a creepy grin and says how nice it is to finally see me in person. Before I can respond she picks up a menu screams out, to nobody in particular, an order for some awful blue drink and three different appetizers.
A bit stunned, I ask if she’s Karen. She giggles and says, “Of course. Who else would I be silly?”
“Well, you don’t look anything like your Facebook profile picture.”
“Oh yeah, My sister and I swapped profile pictures right before you messaged me. I forgot about that.”
“That seems weird. Why weren’t there any other pictures of you on your Facebook page?”
“Oooo, you’ve been stalking me.”
Her drink arrived, some enormous, sugary aquamarine miscarriage of a drink, and she sucked it down through a straw near instantaneously. “You must really like what you see if you tried to go through my pics.” She wobbled a bit, trying to mimic what an attractive girl would do.
“I liked what I SAW, but that was someone else. I’m really sorry, but you’re not really what I’m in to. I’ll cover these drinks, but then I’m going to go.”
“Are you gay? You only like girls that look like little boys?”
“Wha? I’m… sure yeah, I’d actually much rather be with a little boy than you. At least then I could go on a walk without fear of my date fainting”
I hailed the barmen, told him that I’d like to cover the drinks, laid down some cash, and began to go on my way.
“Before I go”, I asked, “do you think I could get your sister’s number?”
She screeched like a beached whale and began hurling insults. I smiled, spun, and moonwalked out of the restaurant. As I was leaving, the barman asked her if she still wanted the food. She screamed yes. I began laughing uncontrollably.
The Moral: Never trust a girl that doesn’t have albums full of pictures on Facebook. That should have been a dead giveaway to me that something was wrong. All girls love photos, especially when they’re in them. Also, there’s nothing wrong with being overweight, but be honest. I’ve got to plan a budget around that.
Remember to do the whole Facebook and Twitter thing. There’s e-mail too. Send in a question for the monthly reader mail bit. And now, the Trilogy of Terror becomes a quadrology.
Appearance: You remember when, as a kid, your mom would order a pizza on one of those special nights? You’d get super excited thinking about that delicious melty cheese and perfectly salty pepperonis. Mom decides to jump in the shower real quick because she just got off work and is ready to relax knowing she doesn’t have to cook. Whle she’s lathering up, the doorbell rings. The pizza is here. Dread sets in. You’re 8. You don’t know what to do. You open the door and stare awkwardly at the delivery driver. They try to figure out where your parents are so they can get their money and get back to work. You piss yourself in fear. That’s what this beer looks like.
Smell: Near non-existent. I suppose if you forced it under the average person’s nose and asked them what it was they’d say “beer”, but it’s hard to really pick out what that means.
Taste: It has a watery body and a cloying astringency. It’s bland. That’s great for college parties during which you may be shotgunning and beer bonginng, but by no stretch of the imagination is any part of this beer pleasant on the tongue. It even has a nice sour aftertaste just to give you one last middle finger.
Overall: This score is only as high as it is because the beer didn’t actually smell bad. 18/100. I don’t know why I keep subjecting myself to these awful, awful beers, but hopefully this was the last of them for some time.
Up Next: A black lager, I think.