It’s late. There’s nothing on but commercials for those supremely idiotic voice chat lines where in the commercial the chicks and dudes are all swelteringly hot but in real life they are all snaggle toothed, acne-ridden, deformed assholes, probably all well over the legal weight limit for hotness.
Those, and that stupid Blind Date show.
You know, the one where they pair two people up then tape the whole first date.
The first one was a good date, I gather. A nerd and a go-go dancer. Sweet.
The second was between a rabid cat lover and a pompous dork who spoke five languages and couldn’t stop talking about cheese. His idea for the date was to play a version of “Horse” where he made her guess what language he was speaking in before she could shoot the ball.
They spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in the car, saying absolutely nothing. Nothing. Silence.
Silence is normally a good thing for me. I don’t mind letting the silence sit there and breathe. Why not? Why have to fill up every last second with words?
There are definitely uncomfortable silences, though.
These were uncomfortable. Even for the audience.
They weren’t going to have a second date.
At the end, where each dater gives their impressions of the date, he was talking about how he knew he didn’t impress her, etc etc.
She delivered hers completely in cat-speak.
She rowled and meowed and made little kitty-paw scratches at the air.
I don’t speak cat, in general. I’d guess he was right, and she was not impressed.