The Night Dinner With My Girlfriend Turned Into An Attempted Murder Investigation

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The Night Dinner With My GF Turned Into A Murder Investigation

“Babe, wanna go out to eat tonight? Jimmy told me about this great Polish place downtown.”

“Why do you even hang out with that guy? He’s a misogynistic piece of shit!”

“You hang out with Tina and that whore’s had two abortions… So, is that a yes for dinner?”

“Ugh. Fine. I hope they’re more flexible with their menu than that Italian place we went to last week. That waiter was an asshole.”

“Maybe he was an asshole because you sent the food back twice and then tried to get him fired, you damn psychopath.”

“What’d you say?!”

“Nothing babe! I’m just looking up the directions.”

I had been dating Kiley for a little over four months at this point. Overall, things were great. She was easy on the eyes with a great personality. She got along with my family and, for once, my mom didn’t give me that “another skank” look every time she came over. She was an okay cook, could beat most of my friends in Madden, and was not shy about trying out new things in bed. But, with all of the good that Kiley brought into my life (cleanliness, organization, vagina), she did have a flaw that was very annoying — she claimed to be allergic to everything.

“Oh, you’re allergic to this cake I bought while at the store looking like a nerd trying to find your cage-free, gluten-less soy milk? My bad. I guess I’ll just have to eat it myself.”

“So you’re saying that if I eat this cake you won’t be able to kiss me for the rest of the day?” I guess it’s true what they say, “You can’t have your cake and eat her out too.” I ate the cake and it was delicious, and now I had the whole afternoon to watch SportsCenter in peace.

The previous week she had sent back a plate of pasta salad because it had tomato in it. Fine, not a big deal. But when the waiter came back with a second plate and she looked at him in all seriousness and said, “Um, I hate to do this but I still feel like there is tomato in here,” I felt like stabbing her in the tit with a butter knife.

She was also “allergic” to bananas. You read that right — fucking bananas. One of the most non-confrontational fruits out there, right behind the kiwi. It just all seemed ridiculous and selectively fabricated.

It might have been the couple beers I had that day or just my shitty sense of humor tangled together with my disdain towards her continued allegations of inferiority when it came to certain foods, but on this day I got the amazing idea to try to test the validity of her claims. On our way to dinner, I stopped at a gas station. While she pumped, I went inside and bought a banana.

We got to the restaurant and ordered food. Pierogis are my shit. She pestered the waiter about ingredients, I shrugged my shoulders when he looked over with an “is this bitch serious?” look and then the food came. Normal date night. When she went to the bathroom, I pulled out the banana and, with a smug look that would make Dr. Evil say, “Dude, what the fuck?,” I mushed about a quarter of it into her mashed potatoes.

Not even five minutes into the meal, she began to glow red and swell up faster than a corpse in the ocean. I was bamboozled; she was actually having a severe allergic reaction — because of me. The staff rushed over to help as she fumbled around in her purse trying to find an EpiPen, but it wasn’t there. Minutes later she was being loaded into the ambulance as I stood there petrified. The reality of what I had just done began to sink in. Overcome with guilt, and due to a moment of clarity, I disclosed to the EMT my brilliant experiment. I tried to justify my actions by saying it was all a stupid joke, a prank. He didn’t think it was funny, and called the cops.

As I sat in the waiting room of the hospital, eating the evidence, two officers from the local PD walked in and immediately began to question me. I briefly explained what I had done and they didn’t think it was funny either. Buncha wet blankets. I was cuffed and escorted to the police station for further interrogation. Turns out, my poisonous actions fit classically into the definition of ‘attempted murder.’

I can’t do hard time, I thought to myself, I’m a skinny young kid with a ripe cherry, every lifers wet dream. Things got real, fast. For nearly two hours I tried to demonstrate the reasoning behind my bright idea and explained that I had meant no harm. The officers looked at me with the same look your dog gives you every time you jerk it with him in the room — utter disgust. Finally, Kiley showed up at the police station and the law filled her in on the details of my situation. She was fuming, and this was no time to tell her how sexy she looks when she gets mad.

As much as she hated me at that moment, she declined to press charges, and I walked out of the station with my ego bruised, my girlfriend alive, and my butthole intact. Needless to say, after some angry spouting and a square punch to the back of my head, we went back home. Things were awkward. She wouldn’t eat anything around me and I slept with one eye open praying she wouldn’t try to saw off my dick. It just wasn’t the same, and we broke up two weeks later.

Gentlemen, let this be a cautionary tale. If your girlfriend says she’s allergic to bananas, pillows, carpet, whatever-the-fuck, just believe her and move on. It’s just not worth the risk of doing a hard ten to twenty five.

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