It was the last straw. My inability to ignore ignorant or hypocritical opinions has cost me dearly over the years. This time it ruined an opportunity for me to get laid—which at my age really sucks since the only women I meet anymore work at my colonoscopy doctor's office.
At first, the date was going well. We shared long, quiet stares over a candlelit dinner after which, over flutes of dessert wine, she unabashedly launched into a soliloquy of her political views.
"I'm a conservative," she announced unexpectedly. "I favor small government."
Oh Gawd, not this old hypocrisy, I thought. Whatever, just don't say anything to cause her not to have sex with you.
"I hate how liberals are trying to make everything permissible today, like drugs, prostitution, gay marriage..."
Not a word, do you hear me? Not a single word!
"But most of all, I hate how we live in a nanny state, where we are not allowed to make decisions for ourselves."
You keep your fat mouth shut, Ed, do you underst...But I could stand it no more.
"That is a nanny state," I bellowed. "You say you're against government overreach, but have no problem letting it decide what kind of sex you can have and what types of drugs you can take?"
It got pretty heated after that but needless to say, any hope of exchanging naughty touches in a dark, wet place had evaporated. But see, this is how it has always been with me. If somebody says something ignorant or hypocritical, I have an obsessive need to call bullshit. Take for instance the cockamamie opinion that we should ban Muslims from entering the country. Yes, I know it's just an opinion, and opinions cannot be wrong, except they can be wrong. This one is quite wrong, just as the opinion that opinions can't be wrong is wrong.
Of course, if someone mistakenly cites the air speed velocity of the unladen African Swallow as being 15 miles per hour (it's 24 mph), I wouldn't be indignant about it. But if somebody makes an outrageously ignorant remark, I'm inclined to get in their face. Such as I did last October, when a client remarked that, "Black people have an extra bone in their foot that enables them to jump higher."
"Is that so?" I asked. "Did you learn that at the Fallbrook School of Backward Learning for Skinhead Crackpot Fuckwads?"
Needless to say, I don't have that client anymore, and that sucked. But it was the self-destruction of my sex life that made me vow to ignore the idiotic comments of others. And I was doing pretty well. For example, a few nights after The Date That Did Not End with Sex happened, an acquaintance commented that, "ISIS is all Obama's fault," to which I did not say, "Actually, it was George W. Bush who created ISIS by needlessly attacking Iraq and disbanding the Iraqi army."
Then there was a friend who insisted that the Star Wars franchise is superior to Star Trek. Admittedly, I was not able to contain my blustery snort of contempt. However, I did manage to not remark about the laughably choreographed saber duels, or the fact that a battalion of blind donkeys have better aim than Stormtroopers, or Yoda's ridiculously overacted death scene, or the fact that Obi-Wan endeavored to hide Luke Skywalker's existence from his father, Anakin Skywalker (aka Darth Vader), yet didn't change his Skywalker surname! I mean, Luke Moonskipper, or Cloudhopper—anything but Skywalker fer crissake! So yeah, I was getting pretty good at keeping my mouth shut. Until I went to Best Buy, and it all fell apart.
I was in the TV aisle with a small group of customers listening to a clerk explain the features of an Ultra HD big screen jobber when a promo for Making a Murderer popped up. For those who don't know, Making a Murderer is a Netflix documentary series about a man named Steven Avery who may have been framed for murder.
Upon seeing the promo, an attractive brunette with whom I would have liked to have sex, blurted, "That documentary was bogus! Do they really expect us to believe that three police agencies, the district attorney, the judge, the FBI forensics were all conspiring to frame Avery?"
Easy now, Ed. Keep your cool.
"Are we supposed to believe that all the people in all those departments had something against Avery?"
It's just her opinion, I said to myself. She is entitled to hav... and then the switch flipped: "You really don't know what you're talking about," I snickered. "The defense didn't suggest everybody was in on the frame-job—only two officers from the Manitowoc police department."
I was in a fustian vortex then, oblivious to my surroundings, bloviating with all my moving parts.
"Nobody knows if the police were dirty, but let's not pretend this shit never happens. Let's not pretend law enforcement has never planted evidence, or that nobody was ever framed, or that conflict of interest doesn't poison investigative objectivity or that..." Then I stopped—suddenly self-aware—and looked around. Everyone was staring at me with jaws dropped. The clerk was scanning the store for backup. And the brunette was shaking her head in a way that told me we would not be having intercourse. Oh well, I thought. Back to the drawing board.