STEPH DEROSA: IMAGINING SEX WITH HER DAD GROSSES HER OUT >>>

I think it was last week or so when Bandito Betty and I were sidetracked into the Goldfish Tavern on our way to Point Defiance.  (Alcoholic moments with her just kinda run together, seeing as how there are so many.)  As with any stop I make in or around Tacoma, I took advantage of the opportunity to scope out the bathroom.

As I faced the dilapidated tiny wooden door to the women's facilities, I noticed the sign said, Women's Restroom¬" Step Up.Reason for this signage: there was a large step to conquer on your way in - a step any inebriated person would fall victim to.  I couldn't help but read the sign in the voice of a motivating women's basketball coach.

Women's Restroom!  Step UUUPPP!  Holla!

The small percentage of like-minded deranged people with similar voices in their head will know what I'm talking about.  The rest of you, ignore what I just said and keep reading.

Inside the dorm room closet-shaped lavatory I recalled my very first visit to the Goldfish Tavern. If you can believe it, it was actually a first date. Nice, huh? Better yet, it was a blind date. This guy obviously knew how to win me over. Back in my single life I would have never turned down a gourmet dinner and fine wine. But given the option, I always found things to be more laid-back and pressure-free in a relaxed social atmosphere -like a dive bar.

No pretentiousness, no pretending, no fake first impressions. I like to get down to the nitty gritty on these dates. Besides, the guys would often let their guards down and allow me to see the true asshole they would eventually become, and that normally one wouldn't notice until the third date.

During this first blind date at The Goldfish Tavern I begin to notice an accent I hadn't heard come out of his mouth before. (We had talked on the phone prior to the date.) It was one of those really annoying Canadian accents where he literally said eh?after every sentence. As if he was either so insecure he needed to ask for acceptance after every statement, or he was just that unintelligent with his vocabulary that he couldn't end the sentence correctly. Either way, it was nothing but irritating for this Texas-bred girl. I was raised to believe anyone residing north of Oklahoma was a hell bound Yankee, and should be avoided at all costs. (Brande Lemke, I know you're reading this, am I right?)

Aside from the ignorant Candian-ese, he managed to talk about fishing the entire time. He was literally, like right out of a bad book of 101 Fisherman Jokes, using full arm movements to demonstrate how he caught the fish and exactly how big (he wished) the fish was. I was dying a slow painful death. Fortunately I had beer as my savior.

Needless to say, we were not a match, and never went out again. He called a few times, but my final excuse for not being able to pursue the relationship was that he had the same name as my dad. I shudder at the thought of having a raging orgasm with a man and screaming out my dad's name. F that noise. Literally.

Great, now I'm nauseated.

So after all of this I got to thinking about horrible dates, and I began to ask my friends to tell me about theirs. I have some pretty good stories already, but I would like to hear yours. Feel free to email me, but know two things: You will always remain anonymous, and I will most definitely be using your story in one of mine.