A few weeks ago, I went on a date. Naturally, I ordered for the table. We started off light with foie gras and caviar. The conversation was good, but the foie gras was better. For our mains, I ordered the 30oz 100-day dry-aged porterhouse with lobster tail, and I ordered the mixed green salad with a light balsamic vinaigrette for Jordan.
My steak was fantastic, and the salad looked fine, but the lobster was the main event. My date kept asking me how my steak and lobster were, which was a little irritating, but I appreciated the interest in my meal.
We finished up and headed back to Jordan’s place. On the drive back, I turned on some Lee Greenwood to help set the mood. As we got closer to our destination, my alpha male senses started tingling. Something was horribly wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what. I turned up “God Bless the USA” to try and shake off the bad feeling, but it didn’t work.
I rounded a bend, and then I saw one of my greatest fears out of the corner of my eye—a row of wind turbines on the horizon. I was horrified and slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt and startling my date in the passenger seat.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Jordan exclaimed. I pulled off to the side of the road and shut off the car. I stepped out and pointed to the turbines, “What the HELL is this?! Why didn’t you tell me about this?! What the hell is wrong with you?!” I demanded to know.
“What? The windmills? Why does that matter?” Jordan asked, seemingly perplexed by my justified outrage.
I was flabbergasted and furious. I told Jordan I wouldn’t go one foot further toward those cancerous, bird-genocide machines under any circumstances. She was profusely apologetic. You could see the pained look on her face as she came to grips with fumbling an alpha male in such a careless fashion.
I told her I appreciated the sincere apology, but the damage had already been done. I asked her to step out of my car, call an Uber, and lose my number.
I started to drive home, still shaken from the night’s events, when my phone rang. It was Mario, letting me know he was linking up with some masculine guys at Hooters, and wanted to see if I would be the guest of honor for the evening.
Naturally, I accepted. I needed a testosterone pick-me-up, and domestic beers with the boys were EXACTLY what the doctor ordered.
Things always work out for alpha males.
