I got a sorry tale to tell. I was going with this mad hot chiquita who I knew from work. Slammin’ body. We’d been diggin’ on each other for a long time, and I finally got up the stones to ask her out. So we go out. Serious good time. Clothing was removed. Fun was had. I repeat: Serious good time. And our next date — you guessed it — Valentine’s Day.
Now, I’m not rich, but I know Valentine’s is a big deal so I gotta represent in a cashflow sense, dig? So, I make reservations at a top shelf seafood establishment, and we go, all pimped out in our finest attire. Let me tell you, my girl looked prime that night. And I looked good too (I must confess).
We order. Sea Bass for her. Tuna Steak for me. Rare. Midway through the meal, I start feeling queasy. I think, no problem, it’ll pass. But then it doesn’t. I excuse myself to make a trip to the Men’s, hoping for a Super-Duper Roto-Rooter Number Two to get me all cleaned out. But alas, no such luck. I come back and I’m sweating like nobody’s business. She tells me, “You don’t look so good.” I don’t feel so good. I think, if only I can get outside, get some fresh air, I’ll be fine. I pay up, and I start walking out with my girl, arm in arm.
And then, ladies and gentlemen, it hits me. Right on the sidewalk, yours truly gets down on his knees, faces Mecca, and vomits his holy guts out. It was intense. The yak splattered all over my fine blue shirt and — that’s right — my hot co-worker’s shoes.
Do I need to tell you what happened next? For whatever reason, my date seemed to find me much less sexy after my Team America upchuck spectacular, and we parted ways that night with only a kiss on the cheek. The moral of the story, my friends: Don’t order the tuna.
Submitted by Benny, Age 25, Atlanta, GA