THE TONGUE RING GIRL DATE

by Steve Clem on January 23, 2010

Alas, I will never top the Hickey Girl date. It’s simply “unpossible.”

But there was one other epic date I had a few summers ago that runs a distant second.

Tongue Ring Girl, aka TRG. A woman from a town two hours north of the cities. We had emailed some, and then talked on the phone once before our first planned date.

I had never dated anyone with a tongue ring before, and wasn’t really sure what to think of it. I’ll admit to being mildly curious.

At first I didn’t really notice the impact of her tongue ring on her speech, in the form of a slight lisp. But that was more to do with the fact she smoked two packs of unfiltered Camels per day.

Think of Marge Simpson’s sisters’ voices, combined with James Earl Jones, and add in a little Sylvester the Cat, and that’s pretty much what TRG sounded like.

And she liberally sprinkled her favorite word, f***, into her conversation.

Think of a raspy, deep voice (and not in a sexy Demi Moore kind of way, more like something you’d expect out of a guy with no sleeves named Bubba).

“I effin’ think we thould go to the effin’ Twinth game for our date. I effin’ love the Twins. And Joe effin’ Mauer. I would love to eff him.” Sideburn envy anyone?

We met in front of my townhouse, and then I drove us downtown for the Twins game. First we stopped off at a downtown hotel bar for some appetizers and drinks.

*Deep TRG Bubba Voice* “I effin’ think I’m hungry for an effin’ cheetheburger. Eff that thoundth good.”

I was starting to wish the Twins played in their new stadium, as there was a light rain falling outside, and it might mean the date would have to be called off for a rainout.

*Deep TRG Bubba Voice* “Tho are you effin’ comfortable with firearmth?”

Oh shit. This will not end well.

I stammer a lame response – “Um, well I guess if by that you mean them not being around me, yes.”

*Deep TRG Bubba Voice* “Oh I don’t have it with me now, I couldn’t get it into the dome. I jutht mean if you ever come over to vithit me overnight. I keep it in my bedroom.”

How much would it take to puncture the roof of the Metrodome? Hypothetically speaking.

*Deep TRG Bubba Voice* “Don’t worry though honey, I keep it locked up there tho my kids don’t effin’ find it. That and my effin’ mini-fridge of liquor. Eff yeah.”

Finally we make our way to the dome, and I’m beginning to think of what I could do to leave suddenly. Sudden death in the family? Genital warts flare up? Forgot to feed my cat?

After an uneventful game where the Twins won 4 to 1 and she outdrank me in beers 8 to 2, we made our way back for the drop-off at her car in front of my townhouse.

*Deep TRG Bubba Voice* “Tho I was effin’ thinking, you know, my job ath an effin’ nurthe ith pretty tranthferable.”

While wondering whether to fake a seizure or a heart attack, I ask in a soft, scared tone, “What do you mean?”

*Deep TRG Bubba Voice* “Well I could eathily move down to the effin’ thities and get a new effin’ job.”

Eff this effin’ shit, I’m thinking to myself.

Quickly, I have one of the most genius ideas in my entire dating career. I grabbed at my pocket. “Oh, I’m effin’ vibrating,” I said out loud, while grabbing my cell phone out of my pocket. “Oh no. I better go. It’th my effin’ exth-wife. Thith might effin’ take awhile.”

* * * *

Steve Clem originally published this piece on the blog A Prisoner in the Tundra.

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