Last night my friend had such a sweet first date that he called to brag about it while he was still on the date and then the fucker turned up at the bar, smiling, with bags of groceries in hand - he had actually left her at home in his bed, six hours after the date had started - to stroll over to the patio where I was drinking whiskey just to tell me how well his date was going. "So how's your date?" I said, as he stood there, even though he had that British smug-face of his on, so I already knew how it was going. "Not bad, not at all bad," he said, "In the sense that on our first date she turned up and got STRAIGHT INTO MY BED without me having to bother with drinks or dinner." Oh, wow! I said. That reminds me of the time I went out with the illustrious Mattress King of San Diego. Except for every single detail.
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