Wait, You’re Still Single? The Story of Fiesta Crotch

10 Jun


Who knew a friend’s birthday dinner could turn into a deleted scene of Jersey Shore?

My friend Taylor and I were discussing how to celebrate his upcoming birthday. He decided he wanted to go eat Mexican food and hang out with hot girls, in no particular order, and instructed me to handle all of the above.

The Mexican restaurant that he told us would host this anticipated fiasco scored a 65 on it’s health department inspection. I gave him a courtesy call.

“Hey Kari! Looking forward to the party?”

“Are you looking forward to dying? Listen, they scored a 65 on their inspection so I think we should go somewhere else.”

“You’re such a snob.”

“Do you want to catch something from rotting tortilla shells?”

“You’re ridiculous. All Mexican food is the same. We’ll see you there.”

We parked and walked into the overcrowded lobby and my first instinct was to yell their health inspection score and watch the crowd disperse.  But by the looks of this crowd it was obvious that anything over a 20 would be acceptable to them.

I walked up to the hostess stand to see if Taylor had called ahead.  Of course he did not so I put our name in. I was handed a laminated “number sixteen” that felt like it just came out of a bucket of Aunt Jemima syrup.

“This is really sticky.”

“We’ll yell that number when the table is ready.”

I looked down and the card had the letter “B” written on it.

Finally our letter/number was yelled, as promised, and they took us to our table. Taylor and his friends came strolling over with cuffs linked. Except for one guy. Tad. He rolled in wearing a pair of middle school basketball shorts and a ratty T-shirt.

About two weeks prior to this, Taylor’s mother called and told me about Tad.

“Hey Kari. I have someone I want you to meet!”

“Great. What’s wrong with him?”

“He is ‘so nice,’ and well, he’s not that cute but sometimes that doesn’t matter.”

I agree with her, but what she didn’t understand is that you need at least one redeeming quality.

“Now, Kari, I know you hate stuff like this, and I didn’t say anything to him, but he really can’t wait to meet you.”

“How does he know about me if you didn’t say anything?”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to go.”


Flash forward two weeks, and here we are at the e-coli infested restaurant with Taylor’s friends, including Tad. When this cat arrived, I could immediately tell we had a Situation on our hands. Similar to “Mike, The” except worse.

As he squatted down to his chair in a hover, he announced to us that he was sore from working out. Situation, Jr. took a quick scan of the table and asked what the ladies did for a living.  I decided to take one for the team and began to speak, but he cut me off.

“Do you have a college degree?”

“Yes, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well,” SJ began to mutter between hands full of chips and salsa, “I don’t, but if I did I think I would make more money.  How much money do you make, before taxes?”

“That’s really personal.”

What?  Are you kidding? I just like to get that kind of shit out on the table, you know?”

He slapped the table and laughed while saying, “Pun intended!!”

He leaned in and whispered, “Can you pass me that salt, babe?”

He reclined confidently back into his chair and continued, “Well, I manage the gym…actually, I work at the front desk. Last year I’d say I pulled in right under $11 G’s.”

I chimed in, “Last year or last month?”

“Year. Duh.”

He sat, waiting for our accolades. I suggested he get a second job.

“I just really, really, I mean REALLY…love the ladies,” he crooned.


“You know, sometimes I just can’t tell one from the next to the next to the next to the next. I just…recycle them, you know?”

“Oh, you recycle? That is so great for the environment. Al Gore would be so proud.”

His voice was getting progressively louder and he seemed to be acquiring a geographically unplaceable accent.

He then began caressing the ponytail of one of my girlfriends. He got right in her face like a stalking mountain cat and said, “I like thick girls, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” she responded.

“I mean, you’re not thick, you’re really thin.  And really hot.  What I mean is, I just like all kinds of girls.” He leaned into her and whispered, “Especially girls like you.”

She stared at him. For a while. “It’s just, well, what you’re saying doesn’t make sense.”

The next topic of conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another couple.  She looked like Snooki after three years in a concentration camp.  Seriously, she looked like she had not eaten since 1993.

Then SJ, not missing a beat, stood up from his hover and checked Skinny Snooki out from head to toe while shoving another handful of chips and salsa into his mouth. He continued to creepily stroke her ponytail with the free hand that was not covered in salsa verde.

“So anyway, I think that sex is overrated.  What do you female lady-girls think? I like to watch other people have sex.  Whether it be live or on film, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

She looked at him and said, “Has anyone ever referred to you as ‘The Situation?’ Or ‘a situation?'”

He looked confused and she continued, “It’s just that I feel like we have the entire cast and crew of Jersey Shore here at our small dinner table.”

He started chowing on his burrito. Each bite resulted in sour cream dripping and salsa squirting everywhere. A big wad of refried beans oozed onto his lap.  He yelled some obscenities, shot out of his chair, and threw the burrito on the floor. He thrust his crotch into my friend’s face.

“Shit!  Look at this!” he yelled as he pointed to his fiesta filled crotch and tilted it up toward her face.

She turned her head in disgust.

“What?  Oh, I get it.  You’re intimidated because I’m so well endowed in these gym shorts.”

“Umm, no, actually, I just don’t want to have your penis in my face.  Under any circumstance.”

Fiesta Crotch searched frantically for anyone who might be paying him some attention.

“Seriously, sit down,” Taylor said.

He got mopey and sat down.  Then he grabbed my sweet, innocent friend’s arm and stared at her for what felt like four months.

“So can I get…your digits?”

She replied, “Huh? My what?”

Tad connected his chair to hers on his good side, and replied defeatedly, “I was just hoping I could get your number.”

“I only have two hundred minutes.”

He looked totally bummed and handed his phone to her and murmured, “Please just type it in.” She began typing and our other friend kicked her under the table.


He started flicking chunks of Fiesta off of his crotch in various directions. Some Fiesta landed in Skinny Snooki’s purse. She didn’t notice because she was too busy staring in her Caboodles hand held mirror and adjusting her hot pink zebra bra strap, which was hanging out of her white shirt.

Fiesta Crotch stage whispered to her, “I’ll call your phone so you can have my number too.  Then you’ll know it’s me and you can answer and we can talk. Are you on LinkedIn?”

He began dialing, held the phone up to his ear and then looked perplexed.

“Hey, that’s your work number.”

“Remember I don’t like to give out my mobile. I also accept facsimile transmissions.”

“I can’t fax. Great. Uggggggh. How are we going to stay in touch?” he asked.

She replied, “Just…leave a message.”

Fiesta Crotch lifted his arm up to have her feel his bicep, and we noticed that he had a big hole in the armpit of the shirt. Naturally we asked him what happened.

“I don’t know, nor do I care. It’s my lucky shirt” he said proudly.

“What happens when you wear your lucky shirt?”

“Lucky things.”

Then he started pulling on his armpit hair and laughing.

Finally our dinner came to a conclusion (thank God), and while walking out to our cars, I could hear Fiesta Crotch behind me talking to Taylor.

He said, “Hey, what’s the tall girl’s name?”

Taylor replied, “That’s Kari.”

I turned around, “I can hear you!”

Fiesta Crotch said, “We should totally go have a drink sometime!”

Taylor and I yelled simultaneously, “No!”

Then he turned around, “Can I call you sometime?”

“Um, call me next month.”

“Wait, when?” he said looking very puzzled.

“It’s leap year…opposite day.”

“I don’t understand.”

I continued waving goodbye as I shut my car door.

Poor Fiesta Crotch moseyed back to his car all by his lonesome. He looked back and announced to us that he probably needed to head home anyway.  I think that worked out best for everyone.

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