My Dip Stick Gets a Valentine

Trip Start Apr 01, 1979
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Flag of United States  , District of Columbia
Tuesday, February 14, 2006

I am a pimp. I don't mean that literally I guess. I don't go around selling the vaginas of my hos, or girls, to anyone who will pay, gleaning most of the money for myself and leaving these hos with basically nothing. No, I'm not that kind of pimp. Rather, I am the kind of pimp who is able to put the mack down, i.e., woo a girl with ease and delicacy. But even for a pimp, or playa if you will, like me, things don't always go as planned. Case in point: Valentine's Day 2006. This pimpin' playa got played, yo.

First of all, Valentine's Day '06 was cold people. It was wicked nasty cold, and let me tell you what, living in a basement apartment in good old DC, when it's cold as the core of the moon out there doesn't make for a nice toasty homecoming. Especially for me since my cheap ass turns off my electric heater all day to save a few pennies. So every night when I actually make it back to my pad, guess what, it's usually about 263 degrees... Kelvin! (Yes, I am a nerd.) So on Valentine's Day when I invite a young lady over to my place for a very special dinner that I'm going to cook, maybe I should remember to leave to heat on, right? Not right actually. It was bitterly cold the entire evening. It takes about 3 hours to get my place up to acceptable standards. We spent most of the evening bundled in huge jackets and scarves. So romantic!

Anyway, as I mentioned, I decided to cook for the evening. Anyone that knows me knows very well that I don't cook. That's not to say I don't like cooking, cause I do. It's just that when I actually sit down to perform this act, it's usually a miserable failure. And it doesn't matter how many recipes I set down in front of my face. It doesn't matter how closely I follow these recipe directions that hundreds before have made successfully. One way or another, my food is going to taste like a big bag of ass. Actually you compare me mixing ingredients to a kid mixing colors with crayons. After a while, no matter what you do, it just all turns out pukey brown. Hence, shit. Hence, my cooking.

So I was set up for disaster on that end too, and I did not let my karma down. In fact in many ways I helped it along by picking a fickle little dish that I thought would easily be my Huckleberry, but ended up being my Finn. (Do you understand that reference? Neither do I, but it sounds good, doesn't it. I might even start using it when I talk. Someday you might too.) The dish was Shrimp Scampi. I trolled over to the local Whole Foods market and started accumulating the finest ingredients around. I was so content with myself when I walked back into my icebox home, that I threw down the gauntlet immediately to begin preparations. I opened up a nice bottle of wine (Boone's Farm, anyone?) and went to work. Soon my shrimp was scampi (By the way, scampi apparently means shrimp in Italian. So I guess the translated version of this dish is Shrimp Shrimp. Food for thought so to speak.). My pasta, boiling and rolling as needed, was almost ready. The ingredients had fallen nicely into place and I thought, 'Hey, maybe I can do something right tonight.' So I took my pasta over to the sink, attached my very handy perforated lid and began to poor off the excess water. One little extra shimmy and shake to get out those last drops and that's when it happened. The lid came off and the pasta went out. Let me ask you a question, fair reader. What does a pound of linguine look like when it's sinking quickly into your garbage disposal? I'll tell you for those who don't know. It looks like the sun. When you stare at it too long it starts to hurt. For me, too long was about 1 second. I was hurting.

Nevertheless, my dinner guest was most forgiving. I was able to make some other pasta, and while it was completely undercooked, and while the sauce at that point way overcooked, it still ate. And you know, maybe in the end I learned something. I learned that Valentine's Day isn't about being romantic or sweet. It's not about getting everything right and having this perfect contrived evening. It's not about flowers and chocolates and all that jazz. No, it's only about one pure, simple, wonderful thing. Not love you purist schmuck! It's about getting laid. And that fair reader is enough for us all.

So be happy and get laid. Ta-ta!
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