Summary

Viggy, after a series of unremarkable dates, meets Rourke, a Tinder date who turns out to be an unfunny comedian named Rockford Rockton, leading to a disappointing and offensive encounter.

Abstract

Viggy agrees to meet Rourke, a Tinder match, at a local bar's comedy night, hoping for a good laugh amidst a streak of lackluster dates. Upon arrival, Viggy is immediately put off by the comedian's hackneyed blonde jokes and is shocked to discover that Rourke is the performer. Rourke, who goes by the stage name Rockford Rockton, attempts to impress Viggy with his comedy, but his outdated jokes and obnoxious demeanor only serve to alienate her. The evening deteriorates further when Rourke makes a derogatory blonde joke directed at Viggy, who responds by criticizing his comedic talent and advising him to focus on his internship. The date ends with Viggy giving Rourke the middle finger and leaving the bar.

Opinions

Viggy has a low opinion of Rourke's comedic abilities, finding his jokes unfunny and outdated.
Rourke is perceived as obnoxious and his stage persona, Rockford Rockton, is not well-received by Viggy.
Viggy is offended by Rourke's blonde jokes, particularly when he implies she doesn't understand his humor because she's blonde.
Viggy believes Rourke should give up on comedy and concentrate on turning his internship into a full-time job.
Rourke seems to lack self-awareness, as he is amused by his own jokes and fails to notice or care about Viggy's discomfort.

The Tinder Chronicles: The Unfunny Comedian

Fiction Friday

Rourke asked me to meet him at a local bar that had weekly comedy nights. I think I have a decent sense of humor, and I could use a good laugh after a loooong string of mediocre dates, so I jumped at the chance.

I arrived right on time and grabbed a table just as another couple was leaving. The stand-up show had already begun; in fact, the couple now hurrying away from the stage had disgusted, slightly confused looks on their faces.

I began to understand their expressions when I caught the tail end of the current performer’s joke.

“…and then the blonde says, it was mayonnaise all along! Blondes, huh? Can’t live with ’em, can’t glean great laugh material without ’em. Goodnight, everybody!”

I did not find the joke funny, despite not hearing the set-up. I studied the comedian onstage as he walked down the short flight of stairs and headed for my table, which happened to be in front of the bar. He had curious chin-length black hair cut into what looked like a ‘I’d like to speak to the manager’ style. It had a strange sheen to it, as though it were fake…

Suddenly he stopped directly in front of me. “You must be Viggy!” he said, and plopped himself into the other chair.

“Um, I’m sorry, I’m actually meeting someone — ”

“Present and accounted for!” With that, he grabbed a fistful of black hair and yanked, sending the cheap wig flying onto another patron’s shoulder. When she looked around, he ducked and started laughing ferociously.

I must have still had a confused look on my face because he said, “It’s me, Rourke! C’mon, Viggalicious, you know me!”

I groaned quietly, because I did, in fact, know him. Without the strange wig, this obnoxious boy in front of me was, without a doubt, Rourke from Tinder. He’d seemed so normal via text!

“I didn’t realize you were a comedian,” I said, trying to rearrange my features into something less snarly.

“Well, ya see, I’ve got my day job — social media manager intern — and I’ve got my night job as Rockford Rockton, man about town and comedian extraordinaire.” He laughed loudly again to himself.

I was at a loss for words. “That’s your stage name?” I finally managed. ‘Rockford Rockton’ landed about as well as his jokes about blondes.

“Yeah, I named myself for my grandpa. He died…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry — ”

“Laughing when he heard my bit!”

“Oh.”

“Let me hit you with this one, Vig-nasty.”

“Um — ” Vig-nasty? What the hell was that?

“So I’m reimagining the airplane food bit, because like today, you know, first class is all gourmet filet mignon and caviar and French wine, so all that old stuff about airplane food sucking doesn’t really fly anymore.” He paused, recognized his unintentional pun, and laughed again like a toddler discovering his toes for the first time. “Hey, I’m not even trying here and I’m hilarious!”

“Well — ”

“Hold on, hold on, let me finish. So airplane food is all gourmet and stuff, so like, we’re down here eating McDonald’s Big Macs — and those are good, Vigglypuff, those are good, don’t get me wrong — and all those rich dudes thirty thousand feet up in the air are drinking champagne and eating snails and fish eggs! What’s up with that, am I right?” Again, the horrible, horrible laugh that felt like a cheese grater against my eardrums.

“I don’t think that’s particularly funny,” I said, finally happy to get a complete sentence out without him interrupting me.

He leveled his gaze at me and smirked. “Oh, I see what’s happening here. You probably just didn’t get the joke, huh, blondie?”

My lips pinched together so hard I thought they might explode all over his face. I kind of wished that would, in fact, happen. It would be funnier than his jokes, that was for sure.

“Lemme see if I can explain this in terms you can understand — ”

“Nope. Nope nope nope,” I said. Interrupting him, for a change, felt divine. “Why don’t I explain this in terms you’ll understand. Stop with the blonde jokes, ditch the wig, and turn that internship into a real job, because you’re never gonna cut it in comedy.”

Rourke blinked, his mouth a momentary O of shock before he recovered. “Wow, look at that! The blonde had something coherent to say!”

“How’s this for coherent?” I said, and stuck my middle finger up proudly right in his face. As I walked out, I called over my shoulder, “I won’t be here all night, but do tip your waitress.”