Thursday, October 8, 2009

Hatin on Peanut Crushers

Believe it or not, the following is a true story. Your girl Harlem was on a date recently....to play mini golf. Let me give you a visual of this guy....he was tall, fat, glasses, and crooked rat teeth. Basically, my definition of a nasty nast. Some of you may think I am being mean and judgmental, but if you want a visual picture, then that is exactly how he looks. As I am sure you are aware, this was a blind date. Not only did he look like a sewer rat, but he stunk like one too. Poor fellow had ate some garbage because he consistently had to go to the bathroom and not for a coke fix if you know what I mean. The bathroom odors lingered onto the putt putt range and unfortunately I wasn't advised to bring my gas mask. The whole date, every time I got the damn ball into that damn little hole he would rub my back and get right in my face telling me how good I was. He must've been blind as a damn bat cause I swear it always took me at least five shots to get it in. He had no idea of personal boundaries at all and his rat teeth kept gnawing near my face. If that wasn't bad enough he got a bag of peanuts for us as a snack. He would crush them in his damn hands and turn the shell to powder and then hold out his hand for me to pick the nuts out. Ummmm, I know you think you are being a gentleman, but have you ever heard of swine flu, or E. coli??? GROSS! Get your damn hand out of my face fool! Unfortunately, I have some manners and took a couple nutty nuts that way and then insisted I was full. To top it all off, I had to pay...WHAT THE FRIG???? At the end of the night, he gave me this huge hug while violently shaking my body....I felt like I was in a damn earthquake. Of course he wanted to go get drinks, but your girl Harlem is way smarter then that. I couldn't stand another minute with Creepenstein. I would dig my own grave and lay in it.

Today's Lesson: NEVER let your friends convince you to go on a blind date with someone they've never even met.

No comments:

Post a Comment