A story told by my friend John relating to the Entree app:

I don’t go on Tinder dates. I don’t go on coffee dates. I don’t let girls eat pumpkin pie.

I’ve learned from my mistakes.
I went on a coffee date with a white girl. It was about 9:00PM, so I had short time to impress.

At some point in the conversation she told me she had never had pumpkin pie.

Yeah I bet you’ve never worn Uggs either… Something wasn’t right, but I was blinded by the prospect of easy Tinder ass.

Why did I assume it was a layup?

What better way to have sex with a white girl than to give her pumpkin pie for her first time?

You know how a duckling will follow the first living organism it sees once it is hatched from its egg?

For a white girl, having pumpkin spice for the first time is a rebirth, and I wanted to be her daddy.

I opened up my Entrée app. I found a spot that boasted to have the best pumpkin pie in Manhattan. I picked Jen up. We headed toward Petee’s Pies.

It was a short walk but she was great. She loved musicals. I din’t have an opinion on musicals, so I shook my head enthusiastically to suggest I shared similar theatrical preferences.

She had political views that were very different than my own, so instead of engaging in conversation, I continued with the Woody the Woodpecker head movements.

Things were going great.

We got to the coffee shop

I opened the door for her.

I pulled her seat out – because I’m a gentleman

I stood behind the pulled out chair, smiled at her, and nodded at the chair below me.

She sat across from me, staring at her phone.

Pull-out game strong, but she wasn’t picking up what I was putting down.

We talked about when we were younger. I told her all about how good I used to be at Madden 2007.

Things were going great.

Then the pie came.

She took a bite and gave a real crooked smile.

All I could think of was the first time I made love to a woman – I was real happy it was happening but it was so much to take in, I didn’t know how to show my appreciation at the time.

I assumed that’s what was happening. “Is this as good for you as it is for me?”

“Is there nutmeg in this?”

“I don’t even know if there’s pumpkin in it.”

“I’m allergic to nutmeg.”

“Then there probably isn’t nutmeg in it. You’ll be chill.”

There was nutmeg in it. I had to take her to the hospital.

That shit should have been on her Tinder profile. A picture of you riding an elephant is dope, but you should let me know if your body is adverse to crustaceans, nuts, or latex.

We got in a cab, and as her esophagus got smaller so did my chances to get a blowjob. I carried her into the hospital and they took her away.

I took her into the waiting room and she was tended to immediately. I wasn’t allowed to follow her back to her room. A Tinder date doesn’t constitute as an emergency contact.

I messaged her a few days later to see if she was okay. She was, but she didn’t want to see me again. She said it was because I was too short. I feel like there should be an inverse relationship between the height I have to be for you to have sex with me, and how heroic I have proven myself to be.

Her genetic code was written in so deeply that she wanted to spread her genes with a tall man, and no one else. It didn’t matter that I had literally saved her life.

If a ferret were to pull me out of a burning building, you best believe I would be willing to have sex with that ferret… as long as the ferret was cool with it.

I’ve learned a lot. I’ve grown a lot (Not taller, or else maybe I’d hit Jen back up). I’ve changed a lot.

When I meet a girl, the conversation quickly gravitates toward food allergies. I don’t need to be wasting beer on a girl just to find out she has a gluten allergy that renders her lethargic for the rest of the night.

Nothing good comes from Tinder, and no one knows what the fuck is in pumpkin pie.