I've always liked the song, "Bubbles in my Beer". Bubbles was a waitress at a truck stop down the road and she was one thirsty woman. I don't know what that has to do with anything other than the fact that I've always had terrible luck with girls. I don't know why. I may not be the greatest looking guy in the world but I always tried to be nice and never abused anyone. Well, there was the mongoose incident but I was goaded into that one.
Despite numerous failures, I kept asking girls out and over time, herard most every excuse in the world. Here are some examples:
My grandmother just died (There was a rash of that back then. I'm thinking it was due to unregulated nuclear testing).
I've got to wash my hair. It will take several weeks.
You've got to be kidding!
I'm a lesbian. Or, soon will be.
I have cholera.
I have leprosy.
Not until you put on some pants!
I'm your first cousin, stupid!
And, of course, there was:
Leave the nursing home or I'm calling the police!
Generally speaking, if a girl isn't having a good time on a date, she will either tough it out or ask to be taken home but my dates always seemed to end with sobbing and crying. Mostly, it was me.
I guess my reputation was preceding me because the older I got, the harder it was to get a girl to commit. Susan laughed hysterically. Mary screamed and slammed the door in my face. Mildred started opening one of her veins with a razor blade and Stephanie used the more direct approach by running over me with her dad's El Dorado.
I asked my psychiatrist, Dr. Demonic, about my problems. He confided that I could probably turn more women gay than a highway billboard showing Michael Moore in a thong. He said I've made more girls sick than a swarm of South American mosquitoes and caused more pain and bloating than PMS.
I hate doctors. I'd find another psychiatrist but he lets me date his sister. They call her Toad Stool Tina. Nice girl. Just don't eat the soup.