A Terrifying Night With Douche Zeppelin

I experienced one of the most terrifying nights of my life during my Senior year of high school.

I dated a real douche balloon for three weeks that year. I'm not talking a little Chuck E. Cheese latex balloon, either. I'm talking a grandiose hot air douche filled balloon with a wicker basket for passengers and shit. Now that I think about it, he should be dubbed as a douche zeppelin.

In fact, my whole relationship with him was terrifying.

Those weeks with him weren't terrifying because he went all Ike Turner on me or gave me the cold sores or anything like that. No, but they were terrifying because he always liked to see me squirm, whether it be sneaking up behind me and yelling "boo"  or telling me he loved me after our first date. Terrifying stuff.

Since we were from a no-horse town, we spent most of our time just riding around. We'd venture onto back roads in the country, talking, listening to the radio, but never drinking beer that we scored from his older sister. We were only 17. Of course we didn't score beer from his older sister. For shame.

One night douche zeppelin and I began to argue, and he told me to get out of his truck. I told him he was crazy. He kept arguing with me until I got so tired of hearing his whiney voice that I complied. Then he drove away.

I was left on a gravel road, miles from civilization, pitch black surrounding me. I remember closing my eyes and it was the same darkness when I opened them. It was dark, bro.

The frigid November wind blew the aged Oaks that formed a canopy over the road. I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself.

This was 1998. The only cell phone I owned was in a bag and plugged into the cigarette lighter in my car. I had no choice but to start moving.

So I walked. And I remained calm. And I rehearsed the break up speech that I would give when I saw the zeppelin at school on Monday. This was the second time that butthead had put me out on the side of the road. Sure, the first time was only like 7 steps from my house, but enough was enough.

And I heard it.

I heard the sound of footsteps on the rocks behind me.

My heart began to pound, and I released rapid puffs of breath into the cold air. I also had the overwhelming urge to run and urinate on myself simultaneously.

And then I heard something else.

I heard the sound of growling.

But it wasn't your regular old domesticated animal kind of growling. It was the gurgle of a rabid beast that walked upright on two legs and ate Lochness Monster testicles and high school Seniors for brunch.

And I ran.

And I prayed. I began praying to God for protection. I prayed to God that I wouldn't trip and fall the way those floozies in scary movies always do. I thanked God that I'd opted for Eastland loafers instead of 6 inch heels that night.

And as I was running, the footsteps behind me quickened. The growling became louder. I could hear it, whatever it was, sucking in sharp breaths of the November air, and I accepted the fact that I was going to be mauled to death on a gravel road by some unknown creature.

I ignored the sharp running pain in my side. I ignored the tears welling up in my eyes. I just ran. I ran like I was on the Cross Country team that had rejected me months before.

"If those bastards could see me now," I thought. "I'm running like a freaking cheetah. I'm in pain, but I'm a cheetah, dammit."

When I saw the headlights coming towards me, I began flailing my arms like a mad person. I even screamed for help. I've never really screamed for help, unless you count the times that my daddy tickled my feet or when I sang the Beatles tune of the same name, but that wasn't life threatening or anything. As I was running down that gravel road, I straight up screamed for help, like those floozies in 6 inch heels that always trip in scary movies.

The vehicle halted beside me, gravel and dust from the tires blinding my eyes as I threw open the passenger side door. I heaved my exhausted and panicked body into the vehicle, oblivious to who was sitting in the driver's seat. It could've been Jack the Ripper. Or Howie Mandel. I didn't care.

It was douche zeppelin. And he was laughing.

I locked the door and began wailing on him. I hit him as hard as I could, groaning from fright, on the verge of hyperventilating.

After slapping him in the face, I looked for the large, gruesome, evil beast that had been chasing me. I saw nothing. There was nothing but darkness.

Douche zeppelin said that it was probably a dog or something harmless. I argued with him through sobs, my chest pounding as I gasped for air. I was so sickened and scared that I puked in his floorboard.

But I didn't puke beer in his floorboard. It wasn't beer that we scored from his older sister. I was only 17 years old. For shame.

The vomit covering his Chevrolet floor mats and the sheer terror that I experienced was the only break up speech needed.

Damn you, douche zeppelin. Damn you.