It’s less common but more annoying than morons who can’t spell “I”: people who typically use words most folks have never heard before. Yep, I dated this one too, a couple weeks ago.
He “favorited” me on a popular Internet dating site. His profile boasts a “ribald” and “trenchant” humor. [Both words are synonymous with “obscene.”] Still, I thought, “He’s not a moron. How refreshing.” I sent a brief, friendly “hello.” Note to self: dumb move.
Mr. Ribald responded: “What an unalloyed pleasure to receive your epistle.” Epistle? I didn’t know I had one to give. [Epistle means letter.] Slightly intrigued, I agreed to a phone chat. Epistle to self: dumber move.
The phone conversation was irritating, as I didn’t have a dictionary or the Internet within reach. Still, I thought it might be nice to have a walking Roget by my side. I thus agreed to what he enthusiastically termed a “meet and greet.” Epistle to self: dumbest move.
We met at T. Fusion, my favorite café, and he paid for my Chocolate Chai Tea Frost. Mr. Ribald is decent looking and outgoing, but his attempts to impress involved crude jokes.
I sat in bored irritation watching his lips move, sipping my Frost, until he finally delivered a punch-line with the word “balls.”
“That’s not funny,” I responded.
Mr. Ribald tried again, offering jokes with different creatures that walk into a bar.
“Nope, not funny.”… “Not funny either…” “I’m still not laughing.”
“Well you tell me a joke,” he insisted.
“I don’t do one-liners. It’s not my kind of humor. ”
Exasperated, he declared, “I think you don’t have a sense of humor, so this isn’t going to work. I wouldn’t have anything to say on our second date...I feel judged.” Mr. Ribald abruptly and dramatically stood up and began walking out. As the people at the next table subtly eyed me with compassion, I casually took time to consume the last of my Frost, found a napkin on the floor that needed discarding, and began strolling out behind him.
Mr. Ribald stopped and turned around to apologize. I’d apparently pushed his unalloyed ribald buttons or epistle-like trenchant nerves by failing to appreciate crude jokes.“It was entirely my fault,” he admitted.
We shook hands and wished each other well.
I’m left wondering if Mr. Ribald’s large, trenchant vocabulary serves as compensation for a small epistle he keeps hidden..? I’ll never know, and that’s a good thing. So is celibacy.
