Let's just jump right into this one, shall we? Below is a partial transcript, as best I can recall, from what will go down as one of the more idiotic pre-date-that's-never-gonna-happen phone conversations I've had. The sad part is that it's not even close to the most idiotic.
Her: So Amy told me you have long hair.
Me: Yeah, well, it's not short. Depends what you consider long.
Her: I love guys with long hair.
Me: Good to know. So what do you do? I wasn't really told anything about you. I was just given your number and told to call.
Her: I'm a teacher...so like, how long is your hair?
Me: I haven't measured it. What do you teach?
Her: Third grade. Is it past your shoulders?
Me: No. I'm not in an 80s metal band.
Her (confused): What do you mean?
Me: It's not that long.
Her: Good. Because I don't like guys with hair that's TOO long.
Me (internally sighing; looking at the timer on my cell phone to see if I'd been on long enough to give her the old "it was nice talking to you routine." Unfortunately, we were only three minutes in. FUCK!): So you enjoying your Easter break?
Her: Yeah. What celebrity would you say you most look like?
Me: Probably Moe.
Her: Who's that?
Me: Moe. From the Three Stooges.
Her (confused yet again; shocking given that she's an "educator"): Which one is Moe?
Me: The main guy. The one that would smack the other two around.
Her: I never really watched it, so I don't know what he looks like.
Me: Don't worry. He had a nice full head of hair.
Her: Okay. Good. You think you can email me a picture?
Me: Of Moe? Just do a google image search.
Her (giggling): No. Of yourself, silly.
Me: Sure. What's your email.
Her: something something something @gmail.com.
(I would know the address if I had actually paid attention and written it down instead of doing the fake write down like you do when taking a fake message from a telemarketer- "He's not in, but I'll be sure to give him the message about how you can lower his Con-Ed bill, Rajnij. Thanks so much for calling.")
Me: Got it.
Her: So did you send it?
Me: I'm not near my computer.
Her: But you'll send it, right?
Me: As soon as I can.
Her: Actually, I can look you up right now. Are you on Facebook?
Her: That sucks.
Me (in my head): You don't know the half of it, sister.
We spoke for a little while longer and I ended the conversation, telling her it was nice talking to her and that we should touch base next week - or something to that effect. This Delilah will need to find another Samson.
Needless to say, Amy got an earful from me not long afterwards. But in the chick's defense, she's only twenty-six and clearly not well versed in the ways of pre-date phone conversation etiquette. I just wonder what would have happened had I been the superficial one in the conversation, and she was forced to be polite. It might have gone something like this:
Me: So Amy says you have really awesome tits.
Her: Yeah, well, depends what you consider "awesome."
Me: I love chicks with great tits.
Her: Good to know. So what do you do for a living?
Me: So like, are we talking Cs, double Ds maybe?
Her: Double Ds? I'm not a porn star.
Me: Good. 'Cause I don't like tits that are TOO big. You know, like the ones that look like inflated water balloons. That's just classless and skanky. Especially when they're huge and they're pointed in opposite directions.
Her: Um, yeah. That's not a problem for me.
Me: Cool. But your tits are big, though, right? Can you send me a picture? Wait. Are you on Facebook? I'll ogle you and your delicious mammary glands on there.
I tried to explain to Amy how the theoretical tit conversation was just as tactless as the hair conversation, but we'll have to agree to disagree - not just about the tit/hair thing, but about why Delilah will not be hearing from me again.