Or should it be blind shrimp and bad date. Seriously, the shrimps little heads were cut off so technically they’re blind, right? And I wanted to cut my fucking head off during the date. Either way, both sucked ass. Speaking of ass, the next paragraph is going to mention shitting more than once. If that bothers you then bail out now.

My friend Angela takes me out to dinner (and as Erin has so kindly pointed out, Frank doesn’t go out to dinner unless Frank is taken to dinner.) We go to one of my favorite places, Killer Shrimp in Marina del Rey. Killer Shrimp serves only one thing and if I have to point out what that is then you’re fucking retarded and please delete yourself from my friends list. The term “Killer Shrimp” is, apparently, Lebanese for “includes both diarrhea and nausea” which in my book means good eatin. Basically I ate shrimp for one hour and shit for 4 days. That’s a full day of shitting for every 15 minutes of eating. You can’t get that return just anywhere. So, at 3am, approximately 6 hours after my meal, I’m sitting on my toilet sweating like Al Sharpton at a Klan rally and thinking, “Gee, can’t wait to go on the show Blind Date tomorrow. It’s gonna be an ass-wipin good time.” What could be worse?

The date is worse.

As my friends know, I don’t “date” in the traditional sense of the word. You can be friends with me. You can have sex with me. You can be friends and have sex with me. But you can’t date me. I don’t do it. I can’t have it. Nothing doing. But I won’t go into my dissertation on dating and why I’m against it. That’s another story. I will, however, describe to you my experience on Blind Date. Why will I do this, you ask. Don’t ask so many questions. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride that is Frank’s agonizingly painful journey into the world of TV dating.

I’ll make this as efficient as possible. The producers show up at my apartment around 2pm to brief me. She’s going to arrive shortly and we’ll start our date. They’ve planned 4 activities for us, 2 daytime and 2 nighttime. The activities are lame. I’ll explain as I go. Here I go…

-She arrives short. Not “shortly” as I’d originally been told, just short. 4 feet, 11 inches short. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m just pointing it out. She was cute. Not cute in the sense that I was attracted to her but cute in the way little 4’11” girls that I’m not attracted to are cute.

-Now, let me also mention that, at this point, I am no longer shitting. How’s that? Um, perhaps because I’ve taken enough Immodium to plug up the FUCKING HOOVER DAMN! I can live with the nausea but there’s no hiding the, “I’ll be in the bathroom for ½ hour. Be right back.” I do tell her that I’ve been sick due to some bad shrimp. Little did I know that later I’d be sick due to another bad shrimp, yuk yuk and hardy har har bastards.

-Driving to location #1 I discover an acute lack of personality and humor. Boy, ain’t this my lucky day! NOTE: At one point she described a friend who’d had “oral cancer in her mouth”. My response was to smile and ask, “Where else can you get oral cancer?” Needless to say that did not generate a laugh except from the crew. They had a sense of humor. I know because I cracked them up so much they had to keep turning off the camera.

-Arrive at location #1, Gold’s Gym in Venice. The producers want me to teach her how to do bodybuilding poses. I haven’t been a competitive bodybuilder for 10 fucking years! Why didn’t they choose soccer as the activity? Hell, I played that in junior high. Fuckwits.

-Driving to location #2 I discover an acute lack of self-esteem. SWEET! They’ve picked me a winner!

-Arrive at location #2, a costume shop. We try on military uniforms but they modify mine. I end up wearing a Marine Corps jacket, a beret and a kilt. Oh yeah, a kilt. We go out on the street to salute cars and see if they’ll honk. They do. Did I mention the skipping? Yes we skipped. Yes I was wearing a kilt. Yes it was my idea. Sadly, this turned out to be the highlight of my day. Skipping down Pico Blvd in a skirt. Kill me.

-Driving to location #3 I discover an acute hatred of men. Every date in her life has gone bad (no shit Sherlock) and now she ruins them all as a preemptive strike against rejection. Dumb bitch should have been nicer because that’s all I require. If you’re nice and have a good sense of humor I will show you a GREAT FUCKING TIME! Even if I don’t want to bang you. Seriously.

-Arrive at location #3, dinner. Now I just want to go home. I’m tired, sick, and sick and tired of this lame date, lame girl and lame TV show. I order food that I don’t want so that I can not eat it with a girl that I don’t want. Remember when I mentioned that I don’t date? There’s a reason for that. So, she proceeds to drink ONE glass of wine and turn into a belligerent drunk. Then a strap on her dress snaps and she starts bitching. She actually cries a little bit. I’m supposed to feel sorry for her? I’ve had raging diarrhea and nausea for 24 hours, I’m on the worst date of my life with a tiny little man-hating, self-hating pixie, in front of TV cameras for the amusement of the world and I have FORCED A FUCKING SMILE ONTO MY FACE FOR THE ENTIRE DEBACLE. I’m sorry that your strap broke. Consider suicide. Please.

-I’m going to summarize here because nothing else happens on the drive to, or at, location #4. Literally nothing. I do not speak. I can’t. Because I’m a nice person but when I’m pushed to the edge I tell people about themselves. They are never happy. Luckily she’s in a drunken stupor and not looking for any conversation at this point. All I can think is, I should have kept wearing the fucking kilt.

Hey, anyone know how I can get on Elimidate?