Why Girls Can’t Drive

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m totally serious.”

“She is such a whore.”

“I know. And this was after I lent her my $250 Prada shoes. Then, they end up in the air in the men’s room at Bear Bar.”

“You are so mean!”

“I know.”

“Pass me that fat-free mocha ice cream.”

“There’s none left. How about the nonfat Rocky Road?”

“Ugh. I don’t want the nuts. They have fat in them. How about the Baked Lays?”

“Do you want the sour cream and onion?”

“You know me so well. So how did your date go last night?”

“He took me to this awful restaurant. I put on my best skirt and a light top with a pair of black leather shoes …”

“The Kenneth Cole or the Fred Siegel?”

“Fred Siegel.”

“Oh, my god. You look so good in those.”

“Oh, my god. You are so nice.”

“Then what happened?”

“So he takes me for Italian food.”

“No he didn’t.”

“I know. He did. And I’m all, ‘Um, there’s so much to choose from on the menu.’ And he’s all, ‘Do you like pasta?’ I almost walked out.”

“I would have.”

“I mean, hello? Hasn’t he heard about the ongoing carbohydrate problem in this country? I’m sorry, I don’t eat carbs. If you want to date me, you have to respect that.”

“He should respect that. You’re too good for him.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

CRASH!