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      Tucker “Well…maybe she’s lost weight. She said it wasn’t a good picture.”

      [Everyone in unison] “HAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.”

      SlingBlade “Lost weight? What, you think she caught that secret rubella epidemic sweeping the Carolinas? When was the last time a girl was better-looking than her INTERNET DATING PICTURE?”

      Tucker “Well, she does have a cute face. You can’t fake that.”

      El Bingeroso “This is not going to end well.”

      Hate “Max, just when I think you’ve tapped out, you find a whole new way to fuck up!”

      Tucker “Fuck you. I hope all of your children have birth defects.”

      I agreed to meet FatGirl at a bar in Durham, The James Joyce. I flatly refused to tell any of my friends where we were meeting, and made them promise not to come looking for me, in case she turned out to be morbidly obese, as opposed to just normal fat, like in her picture. Like an IDIOT, I didn’t think about extracting promises for what would happen after the date. A rookie mistake that will haunt me my entire life.

      FatGirl was seated when I got there, and looked pretty much exactly like she did in the picture—fat. We started talking over beers, and she was exactly like her emails: a nice, sweet girl without a whole lot going for her. It quickly became obvious that she was very much into me, and after about three beers she really started loosening up. The turning point in the conversation was this:

      FatGirl [with a seductive, portly, dimpled look] “Tucker, are you a player?”

      Tucker “Uh, no… I mean, not in the way you are thinking. A player is someone who is only out to have sex for the sake of sex, and will do or say anything to hook up. Yeah, I mean, I like sex, but I won’t do anything to hook up with a girl. Well…normally, at least.”

      FatGirl [still with the seductive, portly, dimpled look] “I think you’re a player Tucker Max…but I’m not going to sleep with you.”

      Well, this one is locked up. The night is obviously going to end in sex if I want it to, but I still had to decide: Do I bail on this date, avoid the ignominy of having sex with Miss Piggy, and pray that another girl emails me for a date, or do I just suck it up, take the opportunity in front of me and fulfill the promise to my friends? I went back and forth on this in my mind.

      Good Tucker “She has a really cute face.”

      Bad Tucker “She is fat.”

      Good Tucker “Well, she isn’t disgustingly obese. She’s only like 30… 40… -ish…pounds overweight.”

      Bad Tucker “What does that mean? Because she doesn’t need a crane to leave her house, it’s somehow OK? She’s FAT.”

      Good Tucker “But I promised my friends, and this might be my only chance to hook up through the site.”

      Bad Tucker “Right…but SHE’S STILL FAT.”

      I end the debate by moving my army across the Rubicon: “Bartender, get me a shot.”

      And then I burned the bridges behind me: “Make it cheap tequila. With a beer back.”

      Yes, I know that fucking fat girls is against the rules for any self-respecting guy, but the rules have a loophole. That loophole is called alcohol. God bless it.

      With each tequila shot and beer combo, she lost weight. Her face, which was previously only cute, became sorta hot. The night started improving.

      Then it went to shit. I chose the James Joyce because I knew none of my friends would be there that night, as on Wednesdays they always went to a bar in Chapel Hill. But there are more people that drink in Duke Law School besides my friends. Namely, two loud-mouthed gossiping bitches in my class, Carry and Amy, who were at the Joyce that night.

      I tried to hide when I saw them walk in, but it was no use, their scandal radar was too sensitive. They immediately spot me:

      Carry “Hey Tucker, I was just about to—”

      She stops mid-sentence when she sees the land beast I am with. I wish I had a picture of the look on her face. Complete and utter confusion, with a hint of disgust and twinge of contempt. I almost laughed…then I remembered that I was the one with the fat girl.

      Tucker “Hey, we were just about leave.”

      FatGirl is standing behind me waiting to be introduced, but that is not happening.

      Carry “Wha—who—uhhh… Tucker…”

      I am out of there before she can finish her thought. There is nothing at the end of that sentence that I want to hear.

      FatGirl and I end up back at my place (I knew my roommates, Hate and Credit, would still be out drinking). We have sex, and both pass out afterwards, even though it was only about 11. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol, the fumes, or the PTSD that put me out. Probably some happy combination of all three.

      The gods of alcohol often entertain themselves at my expense, but sometimes they throw me a bone. Waking me out of an alcoholic stupor normally requires nothing short of ice water and a fog horn, but somehow I awoke in time to hear Credit and Hate slowly open the front door to our apartment and start creeping towards my door, conspiratorially whispering to each other. I spring out of bed, dive at the door and lock it just in time to prevent them from charging in.

      Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about their yelling and banging on the walls:

      Hate “MAX!! BRING OUT THE FATTY!! LET’S SEE HER!!!”

      Credit “Tell her I have a cheeseburger!”

      Hate “MAX!! LET’S HAVE A LOOK AT HER!! BRING HER OUT!! WOOOOOOOOOO-WEEEEEE!!”

      Of course, I couldn’t help but laugh. That shit is funny. But it wasn’t the best part:

      FatGirl “What are they talking about? Should we go out there?”

      Tucker “Uh, no. So…do you just want to spend the night? It’s already like midnight.”

      FatGirl “I would love to, but I can’t. I have to go to work tomorrow, and I can’t leave from here for work. In fact, I need to get going real soon.”

      Tucker “Let’s just wait a minute before you go.”

      Great. Now how do I get her out of here without my roommates meeting her? Hate and Credit eventually settled down in the living room to watch TV, and I devised a plan. Since the door to my room faces the front door to the apartment, I didn’t need to move FatGirl through the living room to get her out of the apartment. I could just rush her from my room out the front door and to her car.

      Tucker “Alright, you put your clothes on and then we need to get you out of the apartment.”

      FatGirl “Get me out? What about your friends? Don’t they want to meet me?”

      Tucker “Trust me, you don’t want to meet my friends. They are evil. Rapists and murderers, both of them. Very unsavory characters.”

      FatGirl “No, I want to meet them. They sound fun.”

      Tucker “This is not an option.”

      FatGirl “Tucker, you are not hustling me out of here like some prostitute.”

      Tucker “Fine, but meeting my roommates is not an option.”

      FatGirl “But Tucker, I want to meet your roommates. Hold on, let me pee, and then I’ll put my clothes on and go out and meet them.”

      Are you kidding? The day I bend my will to a fat girl’s is the day I retire.

      I considered my options for a second, then very calmly opened the

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