Context: I matched with ‘Thief’ on Tinder on a Tuesday, and asked him how his day was. He told me that he was pretty upset because he had not had any tacos, even though it was Taco Tuesday. We made plans to remedy this unfortunate taco situation at El Chucho on Thursday night.
Going to a fairly preppy, Southern school, I became very acquainted with the type of guy widely referred to as the “Basic Bro.”
You know the type. Loves SPORTS, can be found pounding a couple Bud Heavy’s on one of his frat bro’s couch on any given weekend afternoon, wears Sperry’s and Vineyard Vines but has never actually been on a boat (…or to a vineyard?), and has a list of hobbies that begins and ends at ‘Getting SWOLE.’ Likely belonged to a fraternity, refers to himself as a ‘fraternity man,’ and – if you for whatever reason succumb to his lame pickup attempts* – will hump you in missionary for no more than 4 minutes and then fall asleep on top of you. YAY.
*”Hey, so, I don’t live with my parents anymore… that’s pretty cool, right?”
My date Thursday night was as basic as they come. Arriving ten minutes late, decked out in a Patagonia quarter-zip and Ray Bans, ‘Thief’ greeted me with an incredibly awkward, slightly southern-accented hello, making no apologies for his tardiness. No matter – I was there for the tacos, and nothing more. We walked inside El Chucho, were seated at a two-top, and began talking.
Within 30 seconds I knew he was textbook basic bro, solely because he didn’t know how to have an actual conversation. Talking to him was like a fucking job interview.
T – Where you from
J – Virginia
T – How long you lived here
J – 4 months
T – Please tell me about a time you had to act as a leader, as well as how that will empower you in your career here at Fuckboy Inc.
He was a real winner. At this point, he ordered a beer, and I ordered a margarita.
T – What do you do?
J – Oh, I do IT Security Consulting, how about you?
T – That’s such a DC job, you know. Around here, you either work for the government, or you don’t work for the government.
J – Wait, I mean – yes – technically, but wait – what?
T – I have a very similar job.
J – Oh, are you also in consulting?
T – No, I work in inside sales.
J – So, not the same thing…?
T – Waiter, can I have another beer?
…what? It has been 2 minutes, and he’s already crushed his first beer? Noticing my semi-judgmental/mostly inquisitive glance, he responded.
T – I was in a frat, lol.
OH. RIGHT. THAT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING. WHY DON’T WE JUST CHUG ALL THE BEERS?! SEEMS LIKE A GREAT FIRST DATE ACTIVITY!
I stared at him blankly while he waxed poetic about his fraternity days.
T – And we had, this like, beer TUNNEL… and this beer BUCKET… and a beer FISHTANK…
It’s a shame the knives here are too dull to effectively slit my wrists with.
Just when I was about to lose hope, the waiter came back to take our order.
J – TACOS DE POLLO, POR FAVOR!!!!
T – Fish tacos.
The next eight minutes I spent listening to my date talk about ‘how hard he hazed those bitch-ass pledges’ were some of the longest minutes of my life. Finally, my savior came, in the form of tacos. The waiter set the tacos down in front of us, and as I raised a taco to my mouth, something was – off.
Hmm, smells… fishy? Ew, I hate seafood. Ahh, the waiter must have accidentally swapped our tacos. No matter, I’ll just switch ba- WHAT IN KE$HA’s GOOD NAME IS THIS?!
My date had eaten the first taco, and was partway through the second.
MY TACOS. HE HAD EATEN MY TACOS.
Morgan Freeman spoke to me, inside my head.
MF – It’s life, you see. And, scientifically speaking, life is a bitch.
That it is, Morgs. That. It. Is. I gathered myself, and broached the issue.
J – Hey, I think they actually gave you my tacos, haha – I got chicken, and you got fish, remember?
T – Ohhhh, does ‘pollo’ mean ‘chicken’?
J – *facepalm*
J – Hahaha, yeah, and I actually really hate seafood, so…
T – So you’re not gonna eat those tacos? Can I have them then?
J – I mean, I guess…?
At this point, I was faced with the sad reality of my night. After enduring the torture of this hour and a half long, horribly boring date, I also was not going to get any tacos. I stared into my nearly-empty margarita and wept salty, salty tears.
My date responded by getting his fourth beer. I also requested the check. The waiter brought both over, and I wordlessly stared my date down.
T – Don’t worry, I got this.
J – Oh, I wasn’t worried.
T – Sorry about the tacos?
T – Wanna come have a drink at my place?
J – SORRY, GOTTA GO TAKE THE TRASH OUT OR SOME SHIT.
With that, I left. Got up, walked out, and left his basic ass sitting there, waiting for his card back. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Plus, my other option was ripping his fucking throat out, and I’d rather not go to jail for murder before my 24th birthday. My parents wouldn’t be too proud.