Sunday, April 30, 2006

Was My Face Red!

An old high school sweet heart called me because she had moved to the same area I had moved to. We set up a date for the upcoming Friday. I was a welder at the time and that friday at work I was putting together alot of small items, which required me to hold the parts in place and tack welds them. Well, this exposes your face to alot of weld light, and I usually put on a strong uv sun tan lotion to get a good sun tan from it. But, I forgot and ended up getting a terrible sun burn, but didnt notice it untill I was about two miles from her apartment later that nite. I looked in the mirror and saw my face was beet red, I wrinkeled my nose and it hurt so I knew I had gotten flash burnt pretty good. (Its called flash burn in weld shops). My eyes were starting to get very red also and to burn and tear as I got out of my car and headed for her door. I could'nt beleive my luck! She opened the door, and she was even more beutifull than when we dated in high school. She looked at me kinda weird and said cmon in. She had a roommate who looked about 5 years older, and who said skeptically, hi you all right? This flash burn was getting worse by the minute and I felt my eyes wetting and tearing more as I kept wiping them. I told them what happened, but I must have looked like a crazed crack addict desperate for love who had fallen asleep under a sun lamp. Her room mate kept whispering to her in the kitchen and came out and told me I had better leave! Her roommate! Now I am not a bad looking guy and dated some very desirerable women, had a new car and even though my date was good looking she was no where out of my level mentally or physically. Not to have a bit of mercy and humility towards a guy who had a bad day, but still made it to the date on time even though it was obvious the date was going to be a wash was just to cold blooded for me, and letting her roomate "mother theresa" lay it on me to boot was humiliating. I looked at her and said "Thanks" and walked out.Thats it.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Shaggin' Blue...not

My worst first date was about 3 years ago. I still remember the details clearly however, like it was yesterday. Prior to the first date, we met at my old digs out at the state line. The name there has changed, as the owners have…but the name it USED to go by was Kelly’s. It was a hick bar… (Yes I own up to going there!) and the best bar in the area assuming you could tolerate country music. Anyway, I am not here to sell the bar to you. What happened was AT the bar. I met a supposed gentleman there, and I use the term lightly now…unlike then, when I didn’t know better. I will not stoop to use names in this, so I will continue on and just call him BLUE, as this was the color pickup he drove. Blue approached me in the bar, seemingly sober enough, and after a few dances, and a few drinks bought by him, acquired a phone number to call me for a real date. Reasonable request by all standards, as far as I was concerned. The night ended, and we went out separate ways.
That was the information on how we met. NOW…I didn’t hear from Blue for three months after
that night, until out of nowhere, I got a phone call. Glory be!! It was Blue! Supposedly he had
been out of town and busy the last few months with the construction business he was working
for. (Turned out that he was working the site down the road from my work) No biggie. It wasn’t like he was obligated or anything. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and a date and time was
set for the “Real First Date”.
That Saturday, it was decided that we would hit a movie, and go from there. Normally movies are poor first date material in my opinion, but ok…we had already met. My first hint that this wasn’t to be a night to remember was the license plate on his truck. It read “SHAGGIN”. Oh no!! I believe the first thought I had was that I was on a date with Austin Powers. Boy was I mistaken. It went down hill from there.
Although I believe in paying dutch when it is a friend thing. This was a date. HE asked ME. I
ended up having to pay for myself. Ok. I could overlook that too. Maybe he was short on cash?
Red Flag. During the movie…and no I cannot remember which movie it was…but I remember the conversation DURING…he asked me for a ********. WTF! I was dumb founded! Was he JOKING?!
Nope. I ignored him.
So after that disaster…and no I am not done…he had to take me home. Not strait home mind
you…he NEEDED orange juice. He stopped at a gas station on the way…left the truck running
outside with me in it, parked out front. Funny thing about them gas stations….is that the whole
front of them is GLASS. I had the viewing pleasure to watch him walk to the back…grab some
OJ…and mosey on over to the condoms. Yes…I said condoms. He then picked some out…and
went and paid. I think my jaw was hanging at this point. I pretended not to know what he was
doing when he came back out. He smoothly put the paper bag into an inside jacket pocket,
opened his oj, and strolled over to the pickup and climbed in. I said not a word. I wanted my
ride home!
Let me tell you…I don’t lose my temper much, but Blue got the full force of it that night, just as
soon as he pulled into my driveway. I have never seen nor heard from his *** again. Good

Monday, April 24, 2006

Who Stole The Car I Stole?

When I was 16 I had a girlfriend who lived a few miles away, but I didn't have a car. So every
now and then I would wait for my mom to go to bed and then I'd take her car and then go to
my girlfriends house and then I would make sure that I was home well before my mom got up.
One night my girlfriend suggested that we go out with her new-found friend and the girls' new
boyfriend and double up. So at the appropriate time I took my mom's car, went to my girlfriends house, and the four of us went up to a lookout point on top of a mountain a few miles from town (Phoenix) after about 15 minutes my girlfriends' friend asked if I'd give her the keys to my mom's car so that she could get warm. I agreed and went back to making out with my girlfriend several yards away. Suddenly I heard the car start and thought "Well she's just running the heater to get warm". Nope! From where I was sitting I could see her backing out and leaving the lookout point parking lot with her boyfriend. Well imagine what was racing through my mind when just then my girlfriend told me that the girl was a runaway from Oklahoma City, OK and was talking about returning to Oklahoma. All I could imagine as we raced down the mountain on foot was "how I was going to have to buy my mom a new Oldsmobile on what I was making as a bag boy at the local supermarket". I was scared ****-less.
After about 45 minutes they finally came back and picked up my girlfriend and I on the road
and I was innocently told by the girl that " Well, I got hungry and we just took a drive until we f
ound a Taco Bell". I took them all home immediately, and I vowed to myself never to take my
mom's car again. My girlfriend and I ended up laughing it off the next day, but we never hung out with the other couple after that.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

What's Your Story?

I know you've got a bad date story you've been hiding so c'mon, cough it up! Send it to us at or leave it as a comment on this post.

The Crush

Editors Note:Thankyou to the fair young lass who sent us this romantic tale, but be forewarned,                                                               
it deals with adult themes (doing "it") and some kinda bizarre references so if you're
easily offended don't read it.

I’ll never forget the time I was almost killed by Mr. Kentucky. We
were college students, living in the same apartment complex. I was a
brand new freshman; he was a few years older. I don’t know exactly
when he got his bodybuilding title. When I met him, he was no longer
competing, but still had the massive chest and muscles.

We didn’t have a lot in common. Our relationship was based on
proximity and common complaints.

The apartment complex we lived in was one of those low budget hovels
favored by students. All of the apartments came furnished in a style
that could be considered world class -- assuming you always stay at
Motel 8. Everyone had the same living room suite, called a suit.
(This was the South.) The sofa and chairs were made of dark stained
wood and cheap foam cushions covered in scratchy plaid fabric. The
bedroom furniture was worse -- a pressboard dresser and a twin bed with
a mattress so soft that every morning I woke up lying in body sized
dent. I was barely 100 pounds at the time.

The piece de resistance was a television, bolted to a pole, permanently
planted in the living room floor. Brown shag carpeting full of fleas
completed the homey scene.

In such lavish surroundings, you can see how important the television
was. Sometimes escapism is the best thing a place can offer. One
night my TV wasn’t working and neither was Mr. Kentucky’s. Adversity
brought us together.

He wasn’t really even my type, this mountain of a man from the
mountains. I like ‘em short and dark. He was tall and blonde. But he
had those big bizarre muscles; and I’ve always had a hot spot in my
heart for freaks.

I guess everybody likes to think that their lover is one of a kind.
There is an inherent uniqueness in each person’s personality. And I
love it when a man isn’t afraid to be different, when he chooses to be
his own man.

But for a real kick, there’s nothing quite like a man whose uniqueness
is physical. Maybe it’s because I think of him as being extra tough, a
true survivor. Life is hard enough when you look like everyone else.
When you look significantly different from everyone else, you have an
even greater challenge. I guess you could call being physically
different a handicap. But to me, it’s more like a golfer’s handicap --
a little extra challenge given for being a better player.

I know I’m not alone in this feeling. There are plenty of magazines
and websites for devotees of amputees. The hugely obese have their own
fanclubs, too. An albino friend told me that she gets hit on all the
time by men who want to experience “going beyond blonde.” And although
I have no personal experience, but I’ve always suspected that a blind
person’s heightened sense of touch must translate well in bed. (Not to
mention how carnally liberating it would be to never have to worry
about how you look!)

I once was in a class with a really good looking guy whose mother must
have taken Thalidomide. His arms were incomplete. While his biceps
were normal (in fact, they were very nice), his forearms were maybe
eight inches long and sort of tapered down, ending not with a hand, but
with a single finger. It was a boring class, and I passed a lot of the
time fantasizing about what he could do with those arms!

While Mr. Kentucky was a self-made freak, his body was still very
compelling. The tops of his arms were bigger than my thighs. His
breasts were bigger than mine, too, although they were hard and solid.
I didn’t know much about bodybuilding at the time; and I knew nothing
of the drugs that often go with it. I thought that if a guy was
willing to work so hard at enlarging his arms and legs, he must really
put a lot of effort into building up his favorite muscle.

I’ve since done some reading about the whole bodybuilding fetish. I
now know that the love muscle is the least important when it comes to
bulking up. In fact, it not only looks smaller against an overbuilt
body, but can actually shrink if the guy uses steroids.

I was bored, I was horny and I guess I was mostly curious. So when Mr.
Kentucky put on the moves, I was ready. We ended up in his apartment,
which looked just like mine, but messier. And we ended up in his bed,
which was just like mine, but with a bigger dent. And that’s when the
trouble started.

I was expecting kielbasa and he was serving a cocktail weenie. Hey,
I’m open minded. I could handle it. The problem was, in the dark and
amid the bulk, I couldn’t find it. So to make things easier, he
climbed on top of me. They call it the missionary position. And soon
I praying.

Between his huge body and the mushy bed, I couldn’t move. But he could
sure move, and he did. He got into a position where his weight was
totally against my chest. At first I thought about the fact that he
was squishing me back into an AA cup size. Then it dawned on my
increasingly foggy mind that he was collapsing my lungs. And as I was
trying to gasp for air, he thought I was getting really turned on.

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. I
didn’t see any home movies. All I remember is thinking that it was an
embarrassing way to go. This was that old joke turned into reality --
He thought I was cumming; I knew I was going. And as he pounded away,
I learned that death by sex was not as glamorous as it sounds.

Thank god I watched The Wild Kingdom. Somewhere in the last remaining
threads of consciousness, I realized I needed to play dead. I had
already stopped breathing anyway, so it wasn’t a stretch of my acting
ability. I just stopped trying to get any air and lay very still.
Fortunately, he wasn’t big on afterplay. As soon as I seemed done, he
rolled right off of me.

My chest hurt, my throat hurt, and I ached just about everywhere but
where a woman wants to ache after sex. Mr. Kentucky fell asleep
without ever realizing that he had just about rocked me into the big
sleep. I was out of there as soon as I’d caught my breath.

Two days later, the apartment building management sent someone around
to fix our televisions. Things were back to normal. We’d survived
life without TV. No one breathed a bigger sigh of relief than me.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Got A Bad Date Story?

Got a bad date story ?Can we have it... please? Then maybe your story will join the ranks of such literary pearls as the very rude (but funny) "Thankyou For Coming", "The Stain in Spain" , "If the Spew Fits" , "The Speed Date" , or my choice for most embarrassing date, "Stuck On You" . and of course the "Worst Date Ever",! C'mon, you know you want to, so just do it! ( bet you've heard that on a date before) Just send it as an e-mail at or leave it in the comments section below.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Mr. "Reveal All My Flaws To You On The First Date" Guy.

Editors Note: I snuck over to and grabbed this story. (Sadielady owns the blog and earlier said it's ok...hope it still is) anyway, as always, her dates are hilarious. Go visit her blog.
This is a guy I met in law school. We went to two different law schools in the same city, and we met one night at a mixer our two schools hosted. A get to know-other-law-school-students-in-the-city thing. And the thing is, he seemed so damn normal that night. Well, maybe not completely normal, because what completely normal person chooses to go to law school, but normal in that comparative sense. He was laid-back, friendly, and funny, not pushy but definitely interested, plus he was pretty good-looking. So when he asked for my number at the end of the night, I gave it to him. And when he later called, I accepted a dinner invitation from him.

Now, I'm not very high-maintenance, so I like to think, but nevertheless, I expect certain things in certain social situations. A request for a telephone number to call me up for a date + an official phone call to ask for that date + telling me you are planning to pick me up and take me to dinner = I am going to dress nicely, I expect you will dress nicely (nicely does not mean fancy, but you should make an effort to look nice), and I expect that you are interested enough in me that you are probably going to try to make a good impression, as I am going to be doing also. So when I'm wearing a cute little sundress, and you show up in torn haven't-been-washed-in-weeks jeans and an un-tucked, too big for you t-shirt, I'm not going to be thrilled. And when we live in a city that is full of great places to eat, including not-very-pricey great places to eat, and you drive me way out on the outskirts of the city to some family restaurant that serves pre-packaged looking seafood dishes (and our city is on big water and famous for seafood), and the table has a plastic tablecloth, and every other table is filled with ugly people with screaming children, and they don't serve liquor and only offer sweet wine or your choice of 6 different types of cheap beer, I'm really not going to be thrilled. But, I could look past this if you are still the laid-back, friendly, funny guy I met and enjoyed hanging out with at the mixer. It's really difficult to keep upbeat about our date, though, when you start off by telling me that the clothes you're wearing tonight don't belong to you, they belong to your roommate, and that they're too big, but you didn't have anything of your own to wear so you got stuck wearing these clothes, which you're embarrassed to be wearing on our date, especially considering that the jeans have a big hole on the back pocket so that your boxers are showing, and to show me what you're talking about you stand up and turn around and point out the hole and the view of the boxers. Nice. This is definitely off to an awkward start, and I'm wishing now that I were not on this date. Then you tell me about one of your most embarrassing moments in life, which earned you the ridicule of all your guy friends, because you fainted in front of all of them at a football game when someone got hurt, and how they had to carry you to the car and take you to the hospital, and how you fainted again, and how they all laughed and called you a wimp because the injury wasn't even that bad: ok, this is a good story to tell a girl you're on a first date with and trying to impress. Definitely makes her see that masculine side of you. And the conversation just gets worse from there; I mean, I realize that I've got an entire meal to suffer through here, so I try to perk things up with conversation of my own, but somehow you manage to put yourself down or make yourself seem sad and pathetic no matter what topic we try. And when the check comes, and I am so anxious to just get out of this date already that I really, really insist that I pay my half the bill and you really, really won't let me and insist on paying for me, this maybe could have scored you end-of-the-evening points, except that as soon as the waitress walks away with your card you turn to me and say "see this way, you will feel obligated to repay me, which guarantees me a second date." Well guess what, dude, you have no fucking idea how wrong you are there. And at the very, very end of the evening, when you drop me back off and walk me to my door, you have the audacity to assume that I was going to invite you inside and cut me off first by telling me that you hate to not come in, but that you've really got to call it an early evening tonight, since your roommate is going through a tough time right now and you really think he needs to talk about it. And while I'm relieved, and stepping inside with a wave and a good night, you explain to me your roommate's troubles: you see, he's gotten his girlfriend pregnant, and she's all crying and upset, and he's freaked out, and he wants her to get an abortion, but she's against getting an abortion, and they just have no idea what to do, and they only found out just last night that she's pregnant, so it's really crucial that he get back home in case his freaked-out roommate needs to talk - - - well, that's way, way, way more information than I wanted or needed to know, and p.s. I'm so sure that your roommate and his girlfriend would be just thrilled to know that you shared this new and extremely personal information with a girl you just met and they don't know. You obviously have no problem distinguishing between things that are appropriate and inappropriate to say to relative strangers. So thanks so much for dinner, and please never call me again.

P.S. He did call again, about 4 or 5 times. Each time he left a message (I was home two of those times he called but let it go to voice mail when I saw who was calling), and each time he said he definitely wanted to see me again. I guess he eventually picked up on the fact that the date really didn't go as well as he seemed to think it had gone. p

Friday, April 07, 2006

Everymans Nightmare (at least one of them)

Many thanks again to Kathryn for letting me use this story from the blog section of her website :
Remember that horrible song about personal ads? "I love pina coladas..." where these two people meet and it turns out that they have been communicating with their spouse? Well, here's a real-life story that nobody could make up: Daniel Arceneaux of Marseilles, France, traded emails for months with "Sweet Juliette" as "The Prince of Pleasure." Finally they arranged to meet on a remote beach, and understandably were shocked to find out that they were mother and son. And then, to make matters worse, they were arrested for being on a restricted beach after dark. They blurted out the whole story, the cop wrote up a report, the local TV station got it, and now they are famous.

Monday, April 03, 2006

A Bloody Nose And A Frozen Juice Box

Editors Note: Thanks again to Sadielady for letting me poach another one of her stories. Read more about her adventures at her blog .
When I first started dating the guy who became my boyfriend for 3 years in college, he totally did not want to be in a "relationship," and he made that clear up front. So for about 3 months, we dated each other AND other people.

Well I had a formal to go to, and I needed a date. And the guy I was seeing the most of, the "I don't want to be in a relationship" guy, turned me down; he said he didn't want to go, it was a sorority thing and it just wasn't his scene, he didn't want to wear a tux, etc. etc. So I asked this other guy who I had met at the beginning of freshman year, a real cutie, but someone who I was just friends with, nothing more.

We had a fabulous time the night of the formal - at first, that is. We went to a cool little cocktail party, dinner at a fantastic restaurant with a few other couples, lots of good stuff to drink. We had a great time when we first got to the event, too; my date was a dancer, or at least he was the kind of guy who is up for getting out on the dance floor with his date if that's what she wants to do. So he and I were dancing at one point, having a great time. He had some nice moves, I remember thinking his mom probably made him take ballroom dance lessons as a kid or something: I know a lot of people who did that. Anyway, at one point during a fairly slow song he dipped me back, a nice low dip, and as he pulled me back up fast, this other couple got in our way, and as I came up my face slammed into another girl's elbow - - HARD!! The blood immediately started gushing from my nose and flowing down my face, and I ran to the bathroom. Several other girls rushed in after me to see if I was okay; well, I wasn't. My nose was fucking broken, if you can believe that shit! I mean, there was full force going in both directions when the collision took place; my date pulling me fast back up from the low dip, and the extremely drunk girl who slammed her elbow down in my direction while dancing. (She was way too drunk to even realize what had happened - - she just kept on dancing, the bitch.) So somebody got a towel and held it up to my nose, and someone got ice from somewhere, and someone got a wet towel to help wipe up the blood. So there I was, sitting on the floor in the ladies' room off of the ballroom of an elegant hotel, in my strapless black-velvet formal gown, with a bloody towel in front of my face, my nose totally swelling up. My date was such a good date kind of guy, and so clueless about what to do, he just hung around the door to the ladies room, and every time it opened and someone went in or came out, he would say "is she ok? Sadie, are you ok in there? Is there anything I can do?" Poor guy. Finally I was ready to just get out of there, so one of the girls said "yes, can you get a cab and take her back to her dorm room?" Which he did, the sweetie. I felt so bad; I kept apologizing for ruining our evening, and I told him how embarassed I was. He felt bad too: he kept saying "I don't know how it happened! It just happened so fast!" Oh, he felt bad about it. He paid the cabbie, helped me walk up the stairs to my room, walked me inside and sat me on the bed, and kept asking if there was anything else he could do. I said no, no, I'm just so embarassed, I'll be okay though, let's just say goodnight. So then he left. (I think he was pretty relieved to be leaving.)

Well you're probably thinking that's the end of the embarassing story, right? Are you kidding - - do you not know me well enough yet to know that there's got to be an even more embarassing part to the story?

I went to the bathroom on my hall to look in the mirror and wash my face, and I ran into another girl who lived on my hall. She was totally drunk, like me. She said "you've got to put some ice on that!" I said "where am I going to get ice?" She said "I know! Come with me." So I followed her back to her room, and she opened her mini fridge, which had a freezer shelf on the top of it. "I don't have any ice, but here, this Hawaiian Punch juice box has been in the freezer for the longest time, it's frozen solid by now. Put this against your nose!" So I did. I went back to my room and sat on my bed, still in my formal dress mind you, and held the frozen juice box to my nose.

But I was still really unhappy, and there was no one else around, since the drunk girl went back outside to re-join her friends. And man, I don't think I did enough justice earlier in this story to the amount of alcohol I had to drink that night: from a pre-cocktail or two while my friend and I got ready to go out, to several cocktails at the cocktail party, to lots of bottles of wine at our table at dinner, to more drinks at the formal - - I was shit-faced. Shit-faced with a shitty broken nose. But not drunk enough to do what I should've done, which was pass out in my bed - no no, I wanted some sympathy, I wanted somebody, so I decided that I wanted Craig - - the guy who I had been seeing casually for a few months and who had turned down being my date to the formal. So I got up, left my dorm room, and went over to his dorm, just across a small quad from mine. I went inside, went to his room - - open, but empty. So I went down the hall to the lounge, and there he was, hanging out with a bunch of other people, listening to music and laughing and getting high. I could see him in there, but he had his back to me at first. "Um, Craig?", some guy who recognized me said. "What?" "Dude, turn around." So he turned around, and his eyes got big as saucers. There I was, standing in the doorway, in my formal dress, barefoot, and holding a frozen juice box up against my obviously broken nose. Oh, and I had cried earlier in the bathroom at the hotel, so my eyes were completely bloodshot. Plus, I was fucked up. But then again so was he; we were just fucked up on different stuff. "Heeeeeyy! What happened to you?" All the guys were just staring at me; they didn't quite know what to think, except that I looked pretty crazy. Craig told me later "man, you don't know how stoned I was when you came in there, and it kind of freaked me out, because suddenly I had to deal. That was fucked up! Don't ever do that shit to me again! Or at least wait til I'm sober to do shit like that to me!"

Anyway, so that's my story about the bloody nose and the frozen juice box. I probably completely scared the nice guy who was my date that night, but at least I didn't scare off Craig; he and I started dating exclusively pretty soon after that hideous night, and he did go to the rest of my formals with me, through the end of college. None of his friends who were there that night when I walked in ever let me live down the frozen Hawaiian Punch box I was using to help the swelling of my broken nose, though.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

G.I. Jane

A buddy (using the term loosely) wanted to set me up with his cousin. She was about my age, not bad looking (he showed me an older pic) and since I was having in a dry spell (I'm not George Clooney) I agreed and the date was set.
It was a weekend morning and we had decided to meet in the coffee shop area of a local bookstore. I got there first and was trying not to look nervous, one eye scanning the store for the demure slip of girl that I'd seen in the photo, when in swaggers the person, jeans, black t-shirt, MUSCLES , no make-up and a hair that I would describe as a modified mullet!I was polite and tried to hide my confusion as I went to the counter and got her a coffee. When I returned to the table, my date (whom I'll call "Sarge") mentionedthat she had just gotten out of the service, missed it terribly, and started telling me stories about her military adventures around the globe with her best pal (whose name I forgot) also a woman this date wasn't so much bad as confusing. I know , as we talked, that Sarge was checking out girls from the corner of her eye (I was too) and the date ended with a too firm handshake (Owww Sarge!!) and she said she'd like to see me again...what the hell for? This girl was clearly a pretty butch lesbian...anyway, I'm still scratching my head.
Editors Note: Maybe she just wanted to "Take A Walk On The Mild Side"!

J-Date to A-Date (as in Ass)

Thanks to Cake for letting me post this date. You can read more about her
adventures at
Grover's trying to find a man. This is her story.
She went on J-Date. She enlisted the help of her lifelong friends, Bert and Ernie (that's me) to sift through those who replied and craft witty comebacks. She found one guy, who shall remain screen-nameless, and we agreed that he seemed cute and that we (I mean, she) should write back. She did, and in the manner of these things, they began a few rounds of e-flirtation.
He suggested they meet; she agreed. He suggested a location for a drink, a place near his office that wasn't convenient for her, but he had mentioned several times how busy he was at work, so she didn't want to cause problems.
They met. They talked. As over the phone, he mentioned again how busy he was at work. And how much money he made. And how important he was at work. And how much money he made. And how he didn't really believe in friends. "I have two good friends," he boasted, "but I don't believe anybody has more than that. If they do, they're lying." She made a game protest about how this wasn't true for her, but he didn't listen. Also, he didn't believe in sports. Didn't see the point. This to someone who had captained her college squash team. The evening was getting late. Well, not late; they'd only been there for 45 minutes. But she couldn't last a full hour, though she had tried.
Still, she made a last attempt to engage him in a conversation about her--something he'd showed not much interest in doing.
"Do you have any plans for the weekend?" she asked, adding, "I'm going away."
"Where?" he asked.
"Kentucky." (Yes, she was visiting me.)
"Ken-TUCK-y!" he spat, "why are you going to Kentucky?"
"My oldest friend lives there," she replied.
"Your friend grew up in New York and now she lives in Kentucky? Why??
"Her girlfriend moved there," Grover explained. "She got a job."
"Wait, wait, her girlfriend? Is your friend gay?"
"Well, did you ever hook up?"
Evening definitely over; no point in pleasantries. And after 50 minutes with Wealthy, Friendless and Boring, Grover found it in her to cook up the riposte, "No. Did you ever hook up with your sister?"
Go, Grover! And if any of you are ever in a situation like this, I'm happy to be the excuse for your blowing off a bad date.