It’s hard not to complain about everything lately. There’s just so much material.
Trump’s Twitter feed. A five-foot-tall Christmas tree costing $40.
…The fact that my health insurance refuses to cover a typhoid vaccine from when I went to Guatemala because reimbursing customers for preventative health care is as foreign a concept as…Guatemala.
(Also, complaining about having first-world problems.)
But, in these seemingly DARKand DISMAL times, you know what is virtually impossible to complain about?
Or…so you think.
Apparently, there are GUYS out there who complain about sex, and I don’t mean complain about NOT getting it.
My friend Margie told me this mortifying story about this guy she dated, Griffin, who was nothing but a critic. UGH.
They went out several years ago, when they both worked at a restaurant.
Griffin didn’t exactly get a good life review himself, since we’re on the subject of assessments.
He was in his early 30s, lived at home, wasn’t in great shape and he struggled with getting customers’ orders right.
He also spent all his free time at the restaurant bar.
But Margie thought he was fun and harmless, so they went out for a few months.
One day, there was a throwback “drive in movie” playing somewhere and they decided to go. Margie said in typical 1950s fashion, they totally did the hanky panky, grab-ass or whatever the cool kids call it, all in the privacy of the car.
Margie said it was the first time they had ever been that physical before, and it was all very exciting as Indiana Jones played on the big screen.
And, well, she didn’t do anything that uhhhhh Monica Lewisky hasn’t done before.
No complaints from Griffin there.
Margie felt a little sheepish on the way home about it, as most teenagers in the 1950s did, I imagine.
But as she looked to Griffin for some sort of comfort about it—Griffin, the guy who had absolutely ZERO going for him—he politely told her, “thanks for going out with me tonight” and then added….
“That was the eighth best B.J. I’ve ever had in my life.”
THE WHAT-th BEST????
I don’t know what the bigger joke was, his B.S. line or pretending like he’s had eight B.J.s before.
Regardless, it was in poor taste, the worst of the worst in poor taste, and Margie ran out of his car mortified, 5000% regretting her decision.
WHO THE F SAYS THAT????
How about, “Baby, that was amazing, I’ll never look at the Ark the same way!”?????
No, let’s make up a rate system instead! Let’s make the girl I’m dating feel **really good** about her life choices!!!
GROSS EIGHT TIMES OVER.
Now, how can we get him to contract typhoid…..