My Date with Chaz Bono

In this day and age, dating can be an anxious experience, wrought with countless perils: Will she like me? Will she look good? Will she smell nice? What if I talk too much or too little? What are her feelings about cosplay? Is the clown nose I’m wearing shiny enough?

Because of the myriad hazards out there, I have taken it upon myself to venture forth into the dating world for you, to save you from those dangers. In what I hope becomes a regular feature, I present to you, my adventures in the dating scene. You’re welcome. First up:

My Date with Chaz Bono

I met Chaz at an Outback Steakhouse. S/he was adamant that we go to a restaurant that served large quantities of under-cooked meat, to satisfy shis lusty needs.

Chaz was wearing a tux with a top hat, monocle and a whisper-thin mustache. A bit over-dressed I felt, since I was wearing a pair of ripped jeans and an old faded t-shirt that said “No Fat Chicks,” (not a well thought-out ensemble, I admit.)

We were seated at a booth in the back, near the kitchen, at Chaz’s request. S/he wanted the fastest service possible. I admired that, it showed that s/he was an efficient person, which is always a plus.

I was somewhat confused as to why Chaz requested this date, what with my being a hot-blooded, American manly-man from Mantown and Chaz being, well…Chaz.

“Hey there Chaz,” I ventured hesitantly. “Umm, you’re good peoples and all, but I’m a bit confused as to why you’d want to go out on a date with me. As far as I know, neither of us is gay? Does that even apply to you anymore? “

“Not entirely true little man,” shis voice was low and gruff and would have put Sam Elliott to shame, had he been there. “I still have the lady bits betwixt my massively solid legs, and those bits yearn for the release that only an untamed stallion like yourself can provide. “

That statement was a compliment wrapped in the fetid offal that is the image of carnal relationship with shim. I could never unheard those words, I could never unsee that image. My very soul died a little right then.

“Thanks? Anyway, here’s the waiter, what’s your order?” I said.

“Let’s see,” shis voice boomed across the restaurant, like the thunder of an upcoming storm. “I’ll start out with a bloomin’ onion, of course, then I’ll have an order of the Kookaburra Wings…”

“Very good madam*,” the waiter said. “And for monsieur?”

“Cool your heels Francois. That was just the warm-up. I would also like the ribs, rack of lamb, pork tenderloin, shrimp and…oh hell, you only live once. Let’s finish it off with the Queensland Salad,” s/he responded.

“What,” I scoffed, “no dessert?”

“Good point buddy,” s/he said with a gleam in shis bulbous, greasy eye. “ Garçon, please add the Sweet Adventure Sampler Trio to my plate. Grassy-ass.”

I subtly shook my head. I could tell that it was going to be an expensive date. I decided to just get the horror show over with. “I’ll have a pitcher of Gin & Tonic please.”

“What was that monsieur? I do not think I heard you correctly.”

“You sure as hell did Pierre. Pitcher. Booze. Now.”

I will spare you the imagery of Chaz Bono powering through more food than most third-world inhabitants see in a year. I won’t go into detail about how shis teeth seemed to activate like the chain on a chainsaw, ripping through the dead flesh with the speed of a school of piranha. I’ll bypass describing the terrible, ear-raping sounds and smells that wafted over from shis side of the table. For not relating this meal to you, I should get a damn Medal of Honor! I think this date gave me PTSD.

Fast forward to the end of dinner. After selling all of my plasma and sperm to pay for the food, we got up to go. At least, I got up to leave, Chaz more or less rolled forward (s/he had broken shis chair ten minutes into the meal) after being pushed by the combined power of three waiters and the floor manager. It was all I could do to avoid being flatten by shis sheer mass. I felt like Indiana Jones trying to escape that boulder.

With the help of five illegals I hired specifically for this purpose, we hoisted shim into the back of an old beat up Toyota pick up truck belonging to one of the day laborers. Where they drove shim, I’ll never know, because I was in my car and four blocks away, while s/he was descending into a food coma. She had that “itis.”

That date was a disaster, but at least I escaped with my manhood intact. I had successfully avoided shis “lady bits,” which is probably the best one can hope for in this situation. I certainly hope my date next week with Nicki Manaj turns out better.

*All of the waiters at this Outback were imported from three-star restaurants in France. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was some kind of exchange program.