After , Suzanne Lockhart's story about the guy who induced vomiting in her bathroom and didn't clean it up wins with 54 percent of those votes cast.
Last week we started a contest for the you could come up with. On Tuesday, Valentine's Day, you got to read three of the finalists and vote. It came down to a date at , a blind date that went from , and Lockhart's queasy, squeamish, and winning story of .
As the winner of our worst date contest, Lockhart will receive a box of chocolates from . We're hoping the prize will help replace the memory of having to clean up that dude's vomit -- but, honestly, who are we kidding? That memory will be burned in her brain for as long as she lives!
In an upcoming issue of Danville Patch, look for a Q&A with Lockhart about her date and, of course, a photo of her receiving the prize.
So, here's the winning story, if you haven't read it already:
Okay Patchers, I have the mother load of all crappy dates.
It may seem unbelievable, but it's not... oh it's not, but I wish it was!!!
So, my story begins with meeting this attractive EMT. So many EMTs are cute, and this one asked for my phone number, so I gave it to him (being single at the time).
We went out maybe a couple times in the city, where he lived. He seemed like a good catch. Not perfect, but hey. So, anyways, the drama begins when he asks me to attend his brother's wedding with him up in Chico. I was living in Sacramento at the time, and he lived in San Francisco and had no car (alert number one, right?). So he took the ferry to Vallejo where I picked him up and we went back to my apartment so we could put our swag on and be on our merry way to Chico.
Well, come to find out, this guy brought no extra clothes. Oh yes, he was planning on wearing dirty ripped jeans, sandals and a white tee to this wedding. Hmmm... Okay. So, I'm putting my dress on in the next room when I start to hear noises coming from the bathroom. I go to the bathroom door. Locked. I knock. Mr. X comes out and said he didn't feel good, and he had just induced vomiting into my bathroom sink. Yes, the toilet was about 10 inches away. He then told me that he couldn't clean his nasty vomit out of my sink because it would make him "more sick." I will spare you all the details of cleaning that up!
Okay, so we are ready to leave for this wedding -- me all dressed up (probably smelling like a mix of barf and Clorox) and Mr. X in his Sunday best, ripped jeans and all. Remember we are in Sacramento, it was probably about 100 degrees outside, and I am driving because Mr. X has no car.
Okay, so in my car... check oil light comes on. So I stop at the nearest store to check oil and perhaps add more if needed. Mr. X says, "Don't take too long, it's hot in this car." I make my way to the engine, sweating, in my dress and heels and proceed to check the oil in my car while wonderful Mr. X sits and watches me.
Okay, so yes, I continue on. We get to Chico... (Actually the wedding is past Chico, Mr. X told me about half way there). The setting is nice, I am smelly and sweaty. Mr. X looks like an (expletive) in his "wedding attire."
The evening proceeds uneventfully until Mr. X disappears. After searching the site, I found him passed out in the women's lounge, next to a hanging, white wedding dress with vomit all up the side. I think you all can imagine my horror.
It was time for me to end this nightmare of a date and get the hell out of there. But I had driven Mr. X up here. I should have left him, yes, but I am too nice. So, I drove him back to Sacramento. By the time we got into the area, Mr. X informed me that "the ferry would not be running at this hour" and he would have to stay the night with me.
Visions of vomit danced in my mind, and I told him I had to get up early, and that he needed to leave. He, however, had no way to get back into the city. So yes, I had to drive him from Sacramento to San Francisco. I dropped him off, and I got home after 2 AM.
Yes, he called the next day asking us to go out again, because he "had a great time."
I never returned his calls.
I deserve a box of chocolates.