More Proof that Dallas SUCKS

I just found this old email from 2002… seven years later and sadly not much Dallas has changed.  I must get out of here and soon. This pretty much confirms that I shouldn’t feel bad for being anti-social while I am here.  I don’t know where anyone meets people here who are actually interesting.  Whoever wrote this funny story is way more open minded because if you have an area code from Dallas you are automatically disqualified.  I am definitely out on southern boys because they have no idea how to stimulate me mentally and after about twelve minutes I start planning my escape.  I can find much more entertaining activities to do to waste time and none of them include some cheesy moron trying to invade my personal space after just one drink.  I have no idea who wrote this but its hilarious and unfortunately pretty fucking accurate.  Personally, I happen to find this entire city undesirable and the deeper you get into the suburbs of Dallas the scarier it gets.

I got a girl’s number last night. Before you rush to congratulate me, shoot me, or ignore me (depending on whether you know me, date me, or give a shit), I should tell you something. I’m not going to call her. And it’s nothing against her. She’s cute, funny, and smart. Your basic slice of heaven in an otherwise white bread loaf. It’s not her. It’s me. Well, to be honest, it’s not really me either. It’s her digits.

What numbers could be so bad that I wouldn’t call a hotty? No, it’s not the mark of the beast. I’ll put up with a 666 across the forehead if she’s hot enough. It’s those other three numbers. 972. Before everyone in 972 forms a mob to lynch this 214 snob, let me explain. My problem with 972 has nothing to do with the abundance of cheese and the shortage of culture. Personally, I like strip malls and chain restaurants. And it has nothing to do with the people either.

After all, the inferiority complex 972 has makes them like Avis, i.e. “They try harder.” Bigger hair, bigger breasts, bigger trucks.
If every thing’s bigger in Texas, it’s even bigger in 972. And bigger does mean better, right? No, my problem with 972 comes down to three things. As they say in real estate, location, location, location.

From where I live in Post Propertyville near the brick-strewn thoroughfare of McKinney Avenue, Miss Suburbia is GUD. Geographically Undesirable. Translation: “You live where!?!”

If I do call her, then I’ll have to drive to Oklahoma, Canada, or wherever exactly she lives to see her or pick her up. I’m not even sure what side of the road they drive on up there. And is the speed limit in miles per hour or kilometers per hour? I can’t afford another ticket. Sooner or later, I know I’ll forget my passport and end up getting harassed by the Border Patrol. Even if I manage to get across the border, think of the miles I’ll put on my car. That warranty’s only good for so long, you know. And gas, have you seen the prices lately? It would be so much easier if Southwest flew there.

And if I do make the trek to pick up Miss Suburbia, what would we do then? Turn right around and head back to 214. I mean, what is there to do in 972? Okay, besides have Mambo Taxis at Mi Cocina. Broadway Grill?  Yee haw. Memphis? Maybe when I’m forty. City Streets? Isn’t that supposed to open in 2002? Let’s be honest. If there’s stuff to do in 972, why does all of 972 go out in 214?

I can already hear someone in Addison Circle saying, “Our little village has lots to do.” Well, every village needs an idiot. The Circle may have a lot to do, but Addison Circlets are the worst offenders in the midnight migration to Greenville. In fact, if it wasn’t for all the Circlets crowding in, maybe you could actually get back to the bathroom at Zubar.  And don’t think just because you’re in a Post Property you’re different than the rest of 972. You’re not only 972, you’re the worst kind of 972,
the 214 wannabe.

I realize this reluctance to go north of the border costs me. After all, there are a lot of suburban hotties that will never get flashed. But if I make an exception for one hotty, the next thing you know I’m part of the two o’clock caravan of crushed Circlets heading north on Central. And trust me, there’s already enough drunken idiots heading back to Canada that this drunken idiot doesn’t need to join them. I’m fine driving five minutes at the end of the night, but twenty? The Border Patrol is sure to
catch up with me. And nobody is that hot. So, I’m just going to throw away the girl’s number, pray for a 214 hotty, and stay in my little 214 cocoon.

After all, do you think it’s just coincidence that the numbers in both 666 and 972 add up to 18 while 214 adds up to lucky number 7?