A Hypothetical Date With That Chick From the Progressive Commercials

I sit at the restaurant waiting for her to arrive. A slight knot builds in my stomach, and I adjust my tie. It happens to be the only one I possess that lacks that “just out of an ice hockey game” aroma, and I hope the Niagara of nervous sweat flowing down the back of my neck won’t show through my suit jacket. Any man would be nervous; come one, she’s on TV. Finally, she arrives. She looks exactly how I remembered her from watching Spike TV yesterday. Actually, she looks EXACTLY like she did. Same lipstick, same hair. Wait, is she wearing the outfit she wore on set? She even has the name tag she talked about tricking out. It looks like she took a Bedazzler to it. What the hell? This is a four star restaurant, why is she wearing this crap? She fails to notice my confusion as I pull her chair out for her, because do I have occasional moments where I attempt what I think class to be. I return to my seat, and what begins can only be described as me being verbally water boarded.

The dinner begins with her being even peppier than on television. The director must have actually sedated her to get her to the state she is in while peddling boat insurance. She initiates conversation with her blood feud with all amphibians. Toads, salamanders, newts, they are all apparently on her hit list. I motion to the waiter, and we order a bottle of wine. And a triple scotch, straight up. He eyes me worriedly, but she continues the conversation she was having with everyone who didn’t want to hear, and the waiter nods his head. He returns with the wine and two triples. I note to give him the best tip of his night.

She neglects the menu, and orders frog’s legs. I wonder whether she wants to gauge my reaction to the price they must cost or because she feels a little better knowing she caused another amphibian to be assassinated in her name. The bottom of the second scotch is getting dishearteningly clear, yet somehow dangerously blurry as well. Time to stick to the wine.

I’ve yet to get a word in. A single one. The continual shelling of questions with no pauses to respond begins to spawn visions of using the waiter’s cheese grinder on her tongue. She somehow is able to consume a full meal without talking with her mouth full yet never pausing. It seems like a talent that would be on Ripley’s.

Finally, dinner is complete. The bill comes, and after the third bottle of wine and a dinner whose cost is more graphic than a Chechen snuff film, I lose more out of my back account than I do on rent day.