My Worst Date Ever
by Steve Nash
Nash Gambler. Steve Nash often resorts to the old Nash Gambler maneuver – crashing his Ferrari into pole hoping his date from Hell doesn't make it, and he walks out without a scratch. The gamble didn't pay off. She was absolutely fine, and he was forced to endure incessant phone calls for a month. But did he get whistled for the T?
PHOENIX, AZ (Special to the Sportsman’s Daily) — Guys, you’ve all been there. It’s the date from hell. After spending twenty minutes with her, you just want to drive off an embankment, hope she doesn’t survive and pray you walk away with nothing but a few scratches. That scenario nearly played out about nine years ago when I was dating a girl named Christy. We were introduced by a mutual friend.
I picked her up at her house. She looked terrific but smelled of garlic. A bit off putting, but I figured perhaps she’s a good cook, and just didn’t have time to really gargle and/or massage out the overwhelming stench from whipping up a last minute scampi for her elderly mother who she recently took in. I wanted to try a new restaurant that served gourmet Mexican. She wanted burgers. We got burgers. She ate like she was going to the electric chair – trying to put off the inevitable. This girl weighed like ninety-eight pounds – where in the hell did she put it all?
Afterwards, she wanted to go dancing. I’m not much of a dancer, but I wanted to be a good sport. That’s when it happened – the flatulence. I was treated to a steady stream of toots and pops that resembled advanced Morse code.
I could hardly wait for the night to end. I pulled the old, “excuse me, we need to make a stop, I think something disagreed with me” routine. It’s a classic that always seems to work. I went into the bathroom of a gas station, put some water on my face to resemble perspiration, waited the sufficient amount of time, and came out holding my stomach. “What’s the matter?” she said. “I’m sorry Christy,” I said. “I think I’d better take you home – seems the Asian Burger may have missed some time in the refrigerator.” She swallowed the whole bit hook, line, and sinker, which by the way would have looked appropriate considering the shape of her mouth.
The moral of the story? Always know where the nearest gas station restroom is. You just might need it.
The Authors of The Sportsman’s Daily