So, there I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden this blonde popped out of a shop on 23rd in such a rush she upended me on 31st. I was taken aback, to say the least, when my eyes met not the eyes of some bulky chap in yesterday's overcoat, but this vixen of legendary beauty and impeccable dental hygiene. I couldn't speak right away, so I took the gag out of my mouth. (Doctor's orders.) I stammered some lines of Shakespeare and Byron, but they came out all Dickinson and Poe. She smiled nonetheless and offered me her hand—I was still sprawled out on the sidewalk. She pulled me upward with the force of a professional bodybuilder. “Whoa!” I exclaimed.
We spent the afternoon ambling around Central Park, discussing Voltaire and politics. I said I was against the death penalty; she said she would vote only for the cutest candidates. She tried to hold my hand, but I played coy with her, having left my hand at home, next to my car keys and my Sear's card.
Dinner that evening was strange, as I had a date scheduled with Helga, my cleaning lady, and this blonde insisted on coming along. So, the three of us awkwardly sat around the table, shuffling our feet, reading the menu fifty times and not even ordering what we wanted in the first place. At this point I wasn't even hungry anymore, but the boot leather in red wine sauce ended up being rather palatable, and the bottle or two of late-vintage merlot washed things down splendidly.
That night, I felt I had a real good chance with my date, if you know what I mean, but this blonde insisted on coming up for coffee, too. So what else could I do? I killed her.
What? What did you expect?
