Lassie
Hi. My name is Kate, and I didn’t go on the blind date. So why am I writing this? Well, the loose bitch who did go can’t exactly write it for herself. Because she’s actually a dog.
My flatmate has been doing the whole Scarfie thing for a while, living off two-minute noodles and flat charity. Basically we were all getting a bit sick of his bludging, so we decided to make him work for it. Giving him a hand up not a hand out. That kind of thing.
He’s been talking for a while about wanting to “get with some bitches,” so we rewarded his sexism and set him up with my dog. We were to sit in the corner, drinking, observing, and judging.
When we broke the news to him, he took it all in his stride. It probably helped that there was $70 worth of food and wine on offer. When he looks back he’ll realise how easily he can be bought – especially as things went pretty downhill from there.
Once we had him hooked into the whole “demeaning himself for cash” thing, the lols came thick and fast. We made him wait for his main – he hadn’t eaten all day, the bum – until he’d tried his hand at some awkward date chat. The dog lapped it up, and I could see from her big, round eyes that she really found him sweet.
The awkwardness only increased as the date progressed. Every time he got comfortable, we’d ramp it up – soft petting, heavy petting, a bit of mouth action – then he dashed off “to give the dog a walk.” Mmm-hmm, likely story.
When he returned the two were both flushed, bright-eyed and clearly having a whale of a time. The rest of us, meanwhile, were wasted. I’m not entirely sure what happened next – all I know is we lightened our wallets substantially and witnessed the two disappear into a room together.
When I woke up the next morning, I realised I had officially lost all respect for my dog. What a slut.
Timmy
My flatmates are assholes. I got home from uni on Wednesday and was told they had signed me up for a blind date that night. With Kate’s dog. In the flat. Not an ideal situation, but there was $70 worth of free food and wine for us, and the dog wasn’t exactly going to take much of a share. I haven’t got course-related costs yet and I literally have no money. So I shelved my pride and sat down at the meticulously laid out table opposite the dog while my flatmates sat in the corner with drinks in hand, laughing their asses off. How did my life come to this?
The flatties had gone all out, giving me a plate of garlic bread as an entrée, and pouring me some wine. I ignored the dog and ate the food, intending to dine and dash. But Kate told me they wouldn’t give me the main course until I had “made an attempt at conversation.” This was a bizarre request, but everyone talks to their dog occasionally, so I muttered a few things like “who’s a good dog then” and “what did you get up to today?”, obviously with no reply.
The main arrived, and it was home-made pasta and meatballs – pretty decent given that I’ve been living on two minute noodles since the start of O-Week. Halfway through the meal, the flatmates offered me an extra $20 if I would “recreate the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp.” Now before you judge me, who hasn’t had a dog lick their face before? It’s not the end of the world. As we met in the middle, her nose was wet and ticklish – not altogether unpleasant.
After the meal, I decided to take the dog for a walk – it was my turn anyway, and I figured I may as well do the “date” thing properly. We ran along the beach and I threw some sticks, great fun was had by all involved. But when I got home, my flatmates were eight beers deep and being very liberal with their wallets. A further $20 convinced me to let the dog sleep at the end of my bed. Then I opened the door to my room and found a jar of peanut butter with a $50 note taped to the lid.
I started the date balls deep in debt but with no dog issues. I ended the night in precisely the opposite situation.