Imagine if this was your blind date. I’d feel more comfortable if Chris Hansen popped up and asked me to have a seat.

ewAs you enter the living room and take in the scene you silently curse yourself for trusting Brock from the billing department when he told you that his sister “is a really nice person” and ponder your chances of escaping with your life as you gaze upon the contents of the refrigerator that have been flung underneath the lawnmower then dumped into serving bowls, the carefully coordinated candle/kimono color scheme, and the home crematorium system. Your eyes slowly lock with Mildred’s as she pats the sofa invitingly and wipes the ribbon of drool dangling from her lower lip that’s been threatening to leave a wet spot on her thigh, fans a stale fart that’s been ricocheting around her sweaty polyester gown, and scratches beneath her wig. “Help yourself to anything you’d like, I’ve already filled up on eggs and cold cuts,” she says through a humid gust of mouth breath. Her voice fades as you sprint through the door and into the night, thanking the heavens above that Menard’s doesn’t close for another hour so you have plenty of time to ensure that Brock from the billing department won’t miss the appointment he’s made for some face time with Sweet Lady Tire Iron.


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