Maybe it’s because of my Miata convertible (see previous blog) that I’ve had a hard time dating women in LA. The treacherous Sex and the City terrain of Manhattanites is simple compared to the women out here.

My first week in LA, I set up a date on an online dating site for emotionally stunted people entitled ‘Facebook.’ We had been messaging back and forth for almost a year before I moved to LA, so there was a great deal of suspense built up for the meeting. She seemed really cool and well-adjusted, although she had admitted that, as a model, she had had a problem with Bulemia for several years. I just thought, “Cool, no gag reflex!”

The first sign of trouble was the fact that she looked nothing like her pictures. In the profile photos, she looked like Jennifer Lopez. When she showed up at the restaurant, she looked like George Lopez. To add halitosis to injury, she had awful breath and I spent much of the time at our cozy table using my glass of Chianti as a makeshift gas mask. I assumed it was the result of the Bulemia and the resultant ravaged digestive tract. Even though she had mentioned the eating disorder in our previous year long correspondence, I still didn’t feel comfortable enough to say, “Hey, sweetie, I’m sorry to say this and please don’t take it personally… but is there a corpse rotting inside your mouth? Would you mind dunking your head in a bucket of Listerine for 35-45 minutes?”

Sure she was skinny, but it hardly seemed worth it if the trade-off is for corpse-ass breath and whiskers on the chin (side effect of Bulemia – Google it). Actually, she wasn’t just skinny, she was ‘LA skinny,’ which is a brand of skinny that exists only in LA and in a few African countries, where the people are unintentionally starving. The idea of ‘LA skinny’ was something I was struggling with myself upon my arrival on the left coast, considering that the owner of the Laugh Factory told me my ‘gross belly was hanging out’ my first night onstage. I’d never been called ‘fat’ before, but I guess it made sense West Hollywood would be the place I heard it first.

On a side note, I don’t really get why people obsess over skinniness. In New York, women let it all hang out. Even if they weigh 320 pounds and it’s winter, they will still wear a half-shirt. Sometimes they will just take a scrunchie from their hair and wrap it around their boobies. And they will wear ’skinny jeans’ without realizing the slightest bit of irony as their flesh rolls above the waistband. All of that succulent natural fat hanging over the jeans like cream cheese squeezing out of a delicious New York bagel… okay, I’m really just talking about Puerto Rican women, but it’s STILL sexy!

Speaking of Latina women, back to my date:

Cadaver gullet apparently didn’t have either of the Lopez’ bank accounts because when the bill came, she skipped away to the bathroom without showing an ounce of guilt on her face. Unfortunately for HER, I’m a comic, so when she came back I exclaimed ‘Wow, this place is way overpriced!’ Then I handed her the check and said, ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t pay it.’ Even though I was smiling broadly, I think she failed to see the humor in my joke because she didn’t return the smile.

Actually, I don’t know if she was smiling or not because her face couldn’t really move with all the Botox. It was disturbing. I was starting to realize that in LA, it’s all about not showing ANYTHING! Don’t show fat, wrinkles, saggy boobies, emotions, anything. Women would rather have faces stretched taut like a snare drum then have ONE wrinkle on their forehead, despite the fact that they’re 50 and that fact is given away by honest elbows looking like old, wrinkly NUTSACS hanging off the arm (I like to go up to them and flick it back and forth with my finger and yell “SUPPER!” Oh, how they love it! Actually, I can’t tell if they love it because of the frozen face thing).

Anyway, Toxic Tongue just looked at me after I handed her the bill and said, “Are you serious? I’m not paying for this!” as if I gave her a ticket for an illegal left-turn.

Needless to say, I ended up getting the bill… And not a second date.

Apparently, offering to split the dinner bill with a woman in LA is about as offensive as asking a feminist if she would like to join you at a Chris Brown concert.

Clearly, I needed to change my sites for a different cross-section of women. Maybe she was too classy or something. I need to roll with a poor, desperate woman who would just be happy and excited to get out of the trailer. But is there a dating site where I could find a woman like that?

That’s right – there is: Craigslist!

This entry was posted on Monday, June 22nd, 2009 at 12:49 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.