Well, fair readers. To be honest, I hope someday soon that this segment won’t be a thing, but my exceptionally stout and motivated penis has a mind of its own and it’s all but assured Tales of Tinder will be around for a while. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve been forced to give my dick a name.
Henceforth, upon its official knighting on some unwitting woman’s head (applications here), it shall be called:
With that out of the way, I give to you:
The Sweaty Iceberg
T’was a sunny weekday afternoon. I'd just gotten off work and had spent most of my shift swiping right and being super witty on Tinder with opening lines like:
‘If you could have anything in the world . . . oh fuck it, can I have sex with you?’
‘Hey there’s something on your face. Y – yeah, there you got it. By the way, you should really ramp up the security settings on your phone. I’ll see you at your place in three minutes. Xoxoxo ;)’
You get the idea. I'm really good at this kinda thing.
At the time I was still kinda Freshly Single and I still thought Tinder was a treasure trove of pussy and love mixed into one. I’d later find out that it's neither.
You see, to the amateur, most of the Tinder pussy at the time came with a price tag of dinner and broken dreams, and as you found out in my first edition of Tales of Tinder, some of the women come with an even heavier price tag than that. I’m not saying all of you women out there looking for dinner, drinks and a quick fuck are like hookers. I’m saying you most certainly ARE hookers. And God loves you for it.
But this girl I had matched with and chatted up all day didn’t seem like the others. She was super witty, seemed a little more interested in me right off the bat than I was used to, and then promptly found the way to my heart by offering to bring me chocolate on our first date.
I should have known . . .
I forget her name now, but for these purposes let’s call her Tara. So Tara was pretty cute in her photos, probably a solid 8 on the Dickter Scale* all things said. Like most afternoons after work, I was really really free, so I gathered up my rising courage, because keep in mind I was still really new to the dating scene, and then I asked her on a date for later that afternoon. She gave an emphatic “YES!!!”, and because it was so beautiful outside, I suggested we go for a walk in Louise McKinney Park.
Little did I know I had just set the perfect scene for something truly magically hilarious.
I went home quickly after work, showered off my balls, threw on some shorts and a t-shirt, hopped in my truck and made my merry way toward Louise Mckinney. I was pretty excited and I told her beforehand that I would pick up a couple of Tim Horton’s Iced Cappuccinos to cool us down in the brutal sun. My last message to her before I left was simply, ‘Look for the guy holding two iced caps.’
Little did I know that these shitty little beverages would mark me for death.
So I show up to Louise Mckinney Park, step out of my truck lookin’ pretty sexy and suave as usual with my shades on and pants stuffed so tight that my dick was pretty much inside itself, and I start walking toward the entrance to the park with the two iced caps sweating in my massive, hairy man hands. This girl twenty or so steps away locks eyes with me, and like a fucking homing missile she starts walking towards me waving her arms like she was just hit with fucking napalm.
I shit you not, I looked behind me and prayed that she was waving at someone else. Because this was NOT the girl in the Tinder photos. Mark it down, ladies and gents - it was my first official iceberging* and I was completely caught off guard.
She looked kind of like the girl I was supposed to see, except for the fact that she'd taken her Tinder profile photo and then promptly spent the next three months at an all-you-can-eat Bonanza and refused to visit the salad bar once. Had it not been for those stupid iced caps I could have gotten into my vehicle and sped out of there faster than the roadrunner on crack cocaine. Instead, I was stuck on a date with a liar, and I gotta admit I was a little pissed. Not because she was big, but because I'd been deceived.
But . . . down deep, WAY down deep, I’m actually a pretty nice guy. And so I smiled, told myself I’d make the best of the afternoon and maybe make a friend. I agreed to let the iceberging go.
She’d won this battle, but trust me – I won the fucking war.
So we start walking and the conversation starts slow, kind of like her walking speed.
Now Louise Mckinney Park straddles the beautiful Edmonton River Valley and features a lot of inclines throughout. You start at the top, walk down to the bottom, enjoy laughing at the losers on Segways and silently watch the river flow by as you contemplate that your life is just like the river and you’re floating through life like all of the other fecal matter and gross fish that call the river home and realize that everything is meaningless and god oh fuck how did my life get to this point and maybe I should just cut my balls off and move into a monastery where I can pull funny pranks on clergy, love God ironically and never look at another woman again.
And, well, I’m sure people do a bunch of other fun shit at Louise Mckinney that most other people get a kick out of. Did I tell you I’m a riot at parties?
Tara and I make it to the bottom of the park adjacent to the river and we stop for a bit, start chatting about ourselves and then I romantically point out that there’s most definitely at least half a dozen dead bodies floating somewhere in the North Saskatchewan at that very moment. She coos and I wink slyly at her, weirded out for the both of us.
A few moments later, I find out that she’s a nurse, and that she works with heart patients. I tell her I think that’s wonderful that she helps people that really need it, and that it must be really rewarding work.
Well, fuck me. TURN ON THE FUCKING WARP DRIVE, BECAUSE THIS BITCH IS ABOUT TO SHOOT INTO SPACE.
I had never seen this kind of senseless tirade before, and even though I’ve dated several shitty people since, this gal easily tops them all.
Tara proceeded to tell me that she hates the fact that she has to help so many Indians at the hospital (or as I like to call them: “people”), who ALL have heart problems because they ALL drink too much and don’t eat right and are poor and BLAH BLAH BLAH. I kind of chuckled half-heartedly, because I’ve heard this kind of sarcastic bullshit before and I thought that her delivery might just be a little off. I kind of look a little hillbilly-ish with my beard, so maybe she thought I was comfortable with that kind of joke and was just nervous. So, as she was a new face, I’m not proud to say that I gave her the benefit of the doubt, chose to ignore the poor taste and we continued walking.
But Tara wasn’t done.
She got into talking about how she HATES smokers, and that, in her opinion, she doesn’t think that they deserve help or any medical attention, because keep in mind our health care system here in Canada is free. Kind of like the hookers in the dead of winter if you have heating in your car.
Well, I used to be a smoker. I have family and friends who smoke, most of whom who have genuinely tried to quit and continue to do so. Most smokers my age hate the fact that they smoke, and would do anything to have said no the first time they were offered a cigarette. So this struck a chord with me, and this time I knew she wasn’t kidding.
See the thing is, as I’ve intimated already, this chick was BIG. Her telling me that smokers don’t deserve the BASIC HUMAN RIGHT of health care would be the same as me saying that when she gets Type 2 Diabetes, insulin should be withheld from her greedy little sausage fingers and she should be left to the fucking wolves. I don’t believe that, and I think obesity is a disease and an addiction just like any other. But her hypocrisy was fucking mind-boggling, and there is nothing in this world that drives your favorite Dustin more insane than hypocrisy.
It only took five minutes of her bullshit for me to push her from friend zone into enemy territory, and as I took in my surroundings I knew the perfect way of exacting my revenge.
We went up the steep incline. And then we went down the steep incline. We went back up, and then we went down again. One more time, and I must admit, even I was sweating pretty good. But Tara? Well she was pretty much a beluga wrapped in a wet towel by the time I was finished with her. We made it to the top one last time, and when I thought she’d learned her lesson and understood my passive-aggressive message, she tried to speak to me and could barely get out a word. So I walked back toward our vehicles and she tagged along behind me like a child just learning to walk.
I got to her car, planned on saying my final goodbye, and then, in one last act of malice, she swept me up in her sweaty arms and gave me the greasiest hug I’ve ever received. I will never forget that terrible, terrible hug.
But what blew me away even more was her next words:
“Dustin, this was the best date I’ve been on in a very long time. We should do this again sometime.”
My jaw dropped and I politely said “Leslie Noooope. Nope Nope Nope. Nope!”, turned on my heels and walked back to my truck, never to see the Sweaty Iceberg again. God help me.
Lying is for losers.
For the love of god use recent photos, or, at the very least, REAL photos on dating websites. I simply do not understand the complex stupidity going through people’s minds when they use old ass photos that showcase their bods before they got pregnant, fell in love with fried chicken, or got ran over by that three-quarter ton diesel.
Always be your true self, and fuck the haters.
Like literally fuck them. It’s called a hate fuck.
*The Dickter Scale (OR Dicked-her Scale) - Officially trademarked by the Dustin Does franchise, the Dicked-her Scale measures a woman's hotness out of 10 based on three key factors: Is she cute? Does she have a big butt and refuses to lie about it? Is her name Jennifer Lawrence?
*Iceberged (ahys-burg-ed) - Seeing only 10% of someone in a Tinder profile and not fully comprehending that the other terrifying 90% is buried beneath the camera lens. Occurs when a single, desperate individual takes 134890 photos, manages to catch the right angle in one of them and then shows up on the date looking like the person that ate the person you were supposed to see.