Man Has Date With Robber!

“Everyone put your hands where I can see them!” She was as nervous as a criminal on vibrate.
“Do you want us to get in a circle around you, then?” He asked more questions than a congressional hearing about semen stains on a dress.
“No, that won’t be necessary. Form 4 rows of 3, and then 3 rows of 7, and then eat rutabagas. And 14, blue, Venezuela and coffee.” She had more answers than Alex Trebek.
“You know you can’t shoot all of us.” The others volunteered him to be shot first faster than a Stupid Victim League expansion team.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” She was as distracted as a fat washed up singer doing the National Anthem at a baseball game at Mardi Gras during a tornado.
“I said, you can’t shoot all of us. You wouldn’t really shoot me, would you?” He stared at her like a traffic accident at a morgue behind a clown college.
“Just try me! Give me all your money.” She got back on track faster than a pit stopped car at the Indy 500.
“I don’t have a lot, but I’d be happy to give you some – over dinner, maybe?” His balls were bigger than the one that dropped at Times Square, and twice as shiny.
“You’re asking me out – during a robbery?” She was as confused as a port authority bowling league turtle.
“Sure, why not. What have I got to lose?” He was as nonchalant as someone who just doesn’t give a shit anymore.
“Um… I guess. And hey, how about if I pay?” She was as oblivious as a staring contestant on roofies.
“Okay, um, when do you, uh, get off work, so to speak? I’ll pick you up.” He was as uncomfortable as a drunk gerbil stuck in a dryer exhaust vent. In his underwear.
“Well, if these people would hurry, we could go right now. If you don’t mind. I think I like you.” She was sweet and dangerous, like a candy coated roller coaster.
“Okay, people! You heard the lady! Give it up so we can go have some dinner!” He helped her as much as a Hamburger Helper helps her help herself to help her make dinner, except they weren’t having that, of course.
“Have we got everything?” She was as greedy as someone who wanted everything, plus was very hungry.
“I think so. Let’s go out!” He was looking past the dinner to the after dinner, like Nostradamus seeing the future from under satin sheets and completely wasted.
“Okay. We’ll take your car.” She was as decisive as someone who decided what the decisions were going to be.
“Here we are!” He was as boring as paint drying on grass growing.
“I’ll take your car, is what I meant to say.”  She was as crafty as the winner of a Martha Stewart lookalike contest.
“Crap.” He was as understated as a bad thing.
“Thanks for a lovely time.” She was as sarcastic as someone who claims to really like your cooking, you horrible food-mangling asshole.
“Don’t mention it.” He really really didn’t want her to mention it, more than he didn’t want that other thing to happen where a guy holds you down while another guy drops trou and the guy holding you down claims you can’t sit up, but he lets go at the last second and your nose goes into the other guy’s asscrack.
“I won’t. I’ll be gone.” She was as mean as Mr. Mustard, only with no hotdog.
“I’m sure you will.” He watched her as smugly as a bugly in a rugly playing rugby at a derby in Darby eating Arby’s.
“Hey, your car won’t start.” She was as deflated as a blow-up sex doll when you don’t use lube.
“I know. That car is out of gas. And also, it’s not my car. And also, you’re under arrest, because I’m a cop. And also, drop the gun.” He had turned more tables than a hot waitress on a sexy night in a slutty cafe in a seedy part of town in the Meat And Wine District.
“So, I guess we won’t be going out, then?” Her question was as weak as a Dane Cook comedy show.
“No, I guess we won’t.” His answer was as final as the final answer a contestant gives after the host asks if that’s the final answer and they say that it is, so it’s final.

Edward Hotspur

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