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Ah, the holiday season - couples roaming the chilly flurried streets, holding hands, sipping cocoa, nuzzling under the mistletoe. Great for some.
But for the rest of us, the last- ditch effort to find someone to warm us through winter is a little less Norman Rockwell and a little more Norman Bates, without the personality.
To those hapless masses, I dedicate this homage to the bad dates of Christmas as sung to the perennially butt-chapping "Twelve Days of Christmas." Enjoy.
On the first bad date of Christmas, I found under my tree, an ugly gift he got for free.
On the second date of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two "Why didn't you call me's," and I paw-ned the gift he got for me.
Share your First-date nightmares
Now it's your turn. I've shared one of many bad first date stories. I want to hear yours. Tell the story and the outcome. We will sort through the best ones and print them in an upcoming column. It can stay anonymous if you like, so feel free to share. Write me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
On the third date of Christmas, I tri-ed something new, three beers at dinner, two shots of Schnapps and a cab ri-ide home on me.
On the fourth date of Christmas a new boy gave to me, four-hours of yapping, three trips to the ladies room, two knee grabs and a very, very lo-ong ride home.
On the fifth date of Christmas this freako gave to me five "Whyyyyy wooooon't yooooouuu caaalll mmeeeeesss!!" four hours later, three more hang-ups, two stiff drinks, and I bought a new caller ID.
On the sixth date of Christmas, I met a hot-ty, six-pack abs, noooooo weddddiiiinngg riiiing, four compliments, three long-stem roses, two longing looks, it's a shame that he's a lady.
On the seventh day of Christmas, the office pa-arty, seven swains a-swaying, six Xeroxed butt-cheeks, five stolen staplers, four mistletoe mishaps, three more Xeroxed butt-cheeks, two cheeks were mine, and I'm hopin th-ey still respect me.
On the eighth date of Christmas, things were getting good, eight buttons popping, slip is a-sliding, skirt is a-flying, THI-IS COULD BE THE ONE, foreplay is on, this is perfect, two of us alone, and then there's the phone call from mom.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my family visits me, nine nagging aunties, I ate all the cupcakes, everyone's a couple, six more hours, "Whhhyyy aren't you marrrriieeedd?" running for the door, can't get away, thank god the nog is spiked, "I know someone yo-ou should meet."
On the tenth date of Christmas, I'm online chat-ting, nine instant messages, ain't he a sweety, sorta-might like him, we have a meeting, THIIIISSS Cooooould be the Oooonnnee, date's going great, what are those sirens, he has to go, and he's back to his cell at Lemon Creek.
On the eleventh date of Christmas, I'm getting des-per-ate, eleven minutes later I'm at Marlintini's, random guy is buying, ain't good looking, sort of stinky, seems a little stupid, HE'LL HAVE TO DOOOO, he's not drooling, he's still buying, and he has a pulse, please don't let him have a dis-ease.
On the twelfth date of Christmas I star-ted thi-Ink-ing, twelve times a tryin', eleven pervs a' preying, ten lovers leaving, nine nerds a hopin' eight moody misfits, seven swooning swingers, six losers lying, I CAN'T GET A DATE, forgetting some, most were nuts, or called from jail, I'll just stick to ii-ice cream.
Happy Holidays kids, from your old friend, LaRue.
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