What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Stuttering Chick

Hank has a way of attracting freak shows with flapdoodles. He met a woman recently, hit it off, and went on a date. Hank told me he suspected something was off about her, but he couldn’t put his finger in, I mean on it.

“So, how’d it go, Romeo?”
“This crazy shit happens to me so often I’m afraid people are going to begin suspecting I’m making it all up.”
“Uh oh. What happened?”
“We went to a local Irish pub and were enjoying thick beer, bangers, and the typical first-date banter.”
“Yes?”
“All was fine. No kids, no dogs, and no penis. She seemed well read. I plugged your books for you, buddy. You’re welcome.”
“Much obliged. Now, what was she wearing?”
“You ought to lay off the women’s magazines, there, Ru Phil.”
“Come on; indulge me.”
“Fine. A sundress.”
“How were her arms?”
“What?!”
“Her arms: Were they smooth? Tan? Muscular? Pocked with cellulite? Zit-laden?”
“Her arms were fine but after beer three something weird happened.”
“Do tell.”
“She she she began stu-s-st-stu-stuttering like a ch-cha-ch-champ.”
“Oh shit!”
“At first I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. It was awful. I nearly sprayed Guinness foam from my nostrils.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“Then I started looking around for cameras, figuring it was some YouTube bit.”
“Well, did ya f-fa-fu-ff …”
“Shut up. No. We kept the conversation floating along and every time I came close to laughing, I faked a sneeze. Then she said, “Gu-g-gu-od bless you’ and I ran to the men’s room.”
“Nice recovery. Seems like an ideal candidate for bite-the-pillow sex.”
“No kidding. Christ, I’m a misfit magnet.”
“Are you going to suh-suh-see Su-sus-sudio a-gah-ga-gain?”
“Asshole. I don’t know. Maybe. She has a great body and I like her personality. Maybe she was nervous.”
“Introduce her to me. I bet I can knock the stutter out of her.”
“You’d never keep a straight face and then you’d write about her and ruin any chance either of us has.”
“I’d nu-nuh-never.”

Then again …

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