The strike-out artist…
While on a blind date, I once took a woman to a Mexican restaurant. I will not use her name because she wouldn’t tell me what it was. The waitress finally broke her silence when she came by to take our order.
Having never eaten Mexican food before, I ordered the Fajita. I quickly discovered that eating Mexican food is easy, pronouncing it is another matter altogether. For the Spanish impaired, it should be noted that the “j” in fajita is NOT pronounced like the “j” in jackass. The “Fajeta” I asked for sounded more like a part of the female reproductive system; possibly something connected to the vagina. This might explain the looks of disgust I received from all the women within ear shot. Strike one!
No problem. I figured I had the whole night to make up for my blunder. After returning, the waitress did something rather unusual. Instead of taking my drink order, she made a recommendation instead. I assumed she felt sorry for me because my previous order bordered on culinary sexual harassment.
She asked if I would like the super juice. It sounded very robust so I accepted her recommendation. Confused, she repeated the question two more times. Both times I said “Yes,” along with an exaggerated “yes” head nod. On the fourth attempt, she put down her tray and rolled up her sleeves. The other women had gathered around in what was now looking eerily like a female “Fight Club”.
“It’s soup OR juice,” she snarled through clinched teeth!
“Oh!” I said sheepishly. “Can I get a salad instead?” My date was now sitting with her back to me. Strike two!
Strike 3 came out of nowhere. In an effort to break the silence, I decided to show some old school photos. As I yanked them from my wallet, I launched into orbit a long forgotten condom. As it hurtled through the air in slow motion, I dove across the table, catching nothing but air.
The condom lodged itself squarely on her quesadillas. I quickly tried to pass it off as a latex doggy bag, but judging by the force upon which the “doggy bag” struck my forehead I assumed she didn’t buy my story. Strike 3!
With “date over” flashing in my head like the time on my VCR, I grabbed my condom, which I was fairly certain wasn’t going to be used that night, licked off the cheese, tucked it back in my wallet and bolted out the door.
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I had done something that I didn’t think was possible…strike 4! Her car was still in my driveway.
To an idea worth quitting,
Dean
Question: What’s your worst/funniest/most embarrassing date story?
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