Me Love You Long Time | Issue 8

Me Love You Long Time | Issue 8

Dunedin is renowned for many things, but its dating scene is not one of them. Getting boozed and pashing people on the dance floor is hardly anyone’s idea of romance, so Critic wants to sort you out. Every week we’re sending two loveless loners on a blind date to Tokyo Gardens (with a bottle of wine to ease things along of course) to see if we can make some sparks fly. If you want in on the action, email


Pre-date: I thought I’d take a new approach to writing up my blind date, and get the first 100 words down beforehand, therefore giving you an insight into the terror. Immediate thought – my box. This short notice date has left me with a problem most of us ladies face on a Saturday night, that awkward middle of waxing dilema: do you risk it, or cut the cycle and shave? Knowing my luck I’d jinx myself – If I deal to my problem, it’s near guaranteed he will be a retard. If I keep an up and coming wolverine in my pants I’ll probably score myself a Brad Pitt. Shave. Hope I got that right.

Currently I have a bottle of wine and another of vodka next to me; I hope I remember enough of tonight to write the remainder of it up.

Post-date: (All based on a very blurry memory)

My next dilemma was the time of my arrival. My friends and I had a great strategy of waiting in the car until we see a solo stroller carrying a bottle of wine, leaving myself the option of doing a runner. Instead I excitedly run from the car and scream “I love beards!”.

My initial thought was that I had hooked myself Peter Jackson – if he had the same pay packet I probably would have gone home with him and at the least given him a sympathy gobbie. However after the 3rd bottle of wine it all gets a bit hazy. Here is a list of possible conversations we had:
  • I stupidly used a fake name, then told a story using my real one, even confusing myself
  • Kinky sex chat
  • Me awkwardly making Lord of the Rings jokes all night
It seems like whether it is a Saturday night or not - a shaved beaver is a jinx. I bet those pornish lesbos from last week had freakishly hairy boxes to get the action they did. My blind date was defintiely not my Brad Pitt. A lovely man, but a man indeed. And my original thoughts of extra bottles of wine at the table was foolish; not long after hitting the bog the messiness and spew began to follow. On it till ya vomit meant I never really had the chance to mount it. I query if I said goodbye or not as I made my dash to the gutter.

I think the pressure from 18,000 Critic readers expecting big things was all too much for me, resulting in me taking my worries to the bottle. I arrive home early and alone to my carefully laid out whip and condoms.

Advice for future daters: Don’t drink

Lucky this is anonymous. Though is it bad that I can’t remember his name?


My father is the wisest man I know. He once told me something that has stuck with me throughout my childhood, and only now, as I fumble about my adult years, I can truly understand what he meant. He said, “Son, bitches be crazy.” I’ll never forget those words and what they mean. Now, you will have to bear with me as I’m writing this with a hangover that’d feel crippling to even the most severe sufferer of MS.

A blind date, the options are infinite. She could be hot. That’d be awesome, imagine sexing hot chicks! I’ve got a mate that’s done it with a chick before ... like put his boner inside her.

My date said there was too much pressure on making a sex in order to make a good story for the Critic. She then insisted on telling me that she was frigid ... over ... and over ... and over ... I haven’t heard the word “frigid” since I tried to fingerbang a 13-year-old in an alleyway next to school. I do just want to point out that this wasn’t a recent event and I was also 13 at the time. So don’t alert anyone, don’t inform the appropriate authorities, just keep reading.

So when the whole sex thing was ruled out I just drunk. A lot. She legitimately asked me which of my achievements I was most proud was of. I told her I invented sand. She didn’t believe me.

So with her legs firmly closed and my boner wanting sex and puss, we popped to the Bog. I thought maybe whiskey will either a) give me whiskey dick so I didn’t care or b) turn her knickers into a thing of the past. It was neither. I had just finished taking a piss and I got talking to a woman about the unsuccessful date I’d been on. It wasn’t until about 20 minutes later while we getting on with this new girl that I realised that my “date” was staring at us ... so we pointed and laughed at her. So she left. Whatever she writes is a lie.

I went home with girl #2. We had sex. Well ... it was more like attempting to mash a dead sloth into a letterbox. During our feeble attempt at “love-making” she just looked at me with this confused gaze, like a horse that had been asked to book a holiday. She was really quiet and generally non-responsive which made me think I was genuinely doing a rape; so I got off her. But then she sat up and told me something that was truly beautiful and profound. She said ordinary human beings do not evoke the instant passion that “love at first sight” evokes. She also said the tiny penis shouldn’t come between the amazing connection we’d made that night. I still wish she didn’t have it though.
This article first appeared in Issue 8, 2012.
Posted 5:04pm Sunday 22nd April 2012 by Lovebirds.