The Dick Farm
Like most boy crazy, sexually depraved wild girls, my friends and I are constantly on a search for the absolutely flawless 10 men to every woman social function. We have done everything from....
a. snow boarding (There are at least 10 guys to every girl, however, most the boys are at least 10 years younger.)
b. the driving range (It sure is difficult to balance and hit the ball on 5 inch strappy sandals.)
c. bars and discos (Definitely a case of the odds are good, but the goods are odd.)
d. traveling (Always a winner, but our long distance bills are surpassing our travel budgets.)
We've all known there was something we were missing. We just didn't realize it was right under our noses, that is, until a friend who couldn't go to the Avalanche game Monday night decided to give his tickets to me. I wasn't sure I wanted to go at first considering I am no fan of any spectator sport, especially one in which the men often have questionable teeth. But after a few moments thought and an arm twist from Lauren (My avid Bronco fan friend) we made way to the 50 men to every one girl, hormone raging spectacle. The Dick Farm.
From the moment we entered the building, it was like a candy stand on every corner childhood fantasy. I was afraid that it would be a typical meat head extravaganza with chubby, balding ogling men crashing beer cans on their heads and spewing violent profanities. I was wrong. There were so many nice looking, well dressed guys that Lauren and I were the stars of the all female rubberneck parade. We decided to cruise around and conveniently take our time finding our seats. This worked out well. So many guys came up and asked us if we needed help locating our seats that we decided to keep up the lost puppy act for as long as possible.
When we finally did make our way to our section, way up in the nose bleed seats, we were told to wait until a stop of play happened before proceeding. I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but soon a terrible rock ballad shot out of the speakers and he told us we were free to go to our seats. It didn't take me long to learn that bad 80's music means you can move around. The rest was pretty easy to figure out as well. When a guy in white gets knocked down you boo and when the one in the other color falls, scream like there's a naked woman on the ice. There is also the issue of passionately cheering when the ones in white make a goal, unfortunately that never happened.
Lauren pulled out her binoculars, but instead of facing the ice she was scanning the room.
"What are you looking at?"
"I'm trying the find the babe in the red leather coat." He was a complete hotty who passed us on one of our many trolling strolls. "Oh God, there he is." I was looking in the same direction but couldn't see him. "Yuck! He's picking his nose!"
"No way." I said, grabbing the binoculars from her. By the time I spotted him he wasn't picking, but rather eating it. I am not kidding, it was the grossest thing I have seen since third grade when this hideous little boy used to do the same thing. Suddenly, the nose bleed seats seemed a whole lot better than the nose pick ones.
On our way out I was soaking in the last minute sights and Lauren just kept going on and on about the babe who will now be refereed to as the picker. "I could almost handle the picking part." She digressed, "But the eating! I'll never get over that."
Although my understanding of hockey was still a little fuzzy, I still have a great understanding of playing the field. I had to explain to her that, even though the hottie turned out to be a picker and even worse an eater, it's a numbers game. And for every one that comes along who is less than perfect, you're just that much closer to someone who actually uses a Kleenex.