S o, Christy,
I’m doing online dating, and I meet up with a potential suitor for dinner. He makes the reservations at a nice (expensive) restaurant, and we enjoy a lovely meal together. When the check came, he fumbled with it for a bit, and then said, “What should we do?” I was under the impression that if you choose a fancy spot on your own accord, you should be willing to pick up the tab. Correct?
Remember when our grandmas went to the bar when PBR cost two shillings?
“Hey Herb, check out that floozy by the watercloset. Her ankles are showing.”
“Accurate, comrade. What a wench. I’m going to see if I can get to third and fondle the small of her knee.”
Nowadays, we show up to bars scantily clad and we defy boys to so much as look at us, lest a junk-punch.
“Oh em gee, ladies, why doesn’t that dude just get out his flip cam. His eyes are, like, totally buggin’ on me.”
“Well, Nancy, you only have pasties on.”
Point: Things are different. Boys are no longer required to cover the bill. Plus, we usually make more money than they do anyway.
(Holy parity, Catwoman, we can vote!)
Give him a break, he’s still paying off his manbag from Gucci — plus he has his facial on Saturday.
However, if he knows from the beginning that he wants to date Dutch, then he should choose a joint that at least serves joints.
I mean cheddar biscuits. Or chips and salsa. Or bottomless Marlboro lights.
So next time he asks you out to dinner — go — but suggest Country Buffet ($5.99 bitches).
Then, fill your diaper bag with gallon Ziplock bags. When he asks what the shit you’re doing at the pizza bar, say:
“Last time we went to dinner, my checking account was beat like a bag of wine. I need to eat the rest of this week.”
Then punch him in the nads, because he’ll then offer to pay for the buffet.
I’ve been dating this girl for a little while now, and she is great. The only problem is that she snores, and I’m a light sleeper. We’re not talking about a cute little buzzsaw more like a Harley. The worst part is that she won’t believe that she could possibly be making this noise, or that she’s so loud. What can I do? Should I resign myself to getting bad sleep for the rest of my life, or should I be looking for a quieter companion?
–Sleepless in Boulder
Two easy solutions: Tylenol PM or a fifth of whiskey.
Yours truly — a delicate blossom who allegedly snores like a swine — lives in snore denial.
One time, while sharing a ski condo with 13 others in Steamboat, some dude recorded my elegant slumber with his phone.
Apparently, the first step is denial. The second step is punching the rest of the steps in the ovaries.
We, the snorers of the United Screw You Guys with Non-Obstructed Airways, are embarrassed to admit to snoring. Alas, if we do, it sounds like a precious empress sneeze.
As for your broad’s nasal knocking, affix 13 snore strips to her face after she blacks out. Or just smother her with her pillow.
Nah. No need for jail time, because we don’t snore! Jerks.