Most people have stories about their first date or a date gone horribly wrong -- maybe they're even the same date.
Tanner's nightmare date at a restaurant had nothing to do with what was happening around him. It's what was going on underneath the table -- that he hoped nobody would find out about.
It was Tanner's favorite restaurant. He knew the menu inside and out. (It's the out thing that comes into play on this date.) Hunger and nervous excitement for the date didn't pair well for TanTan's stomach.
The food was great, sure, but he ate so quickly -- partnered with the nerves -- that things went down maybe a little too quickly.
This is where things get… fragrant… Tanner's digestive system decided to stage a revolt. Let's just say the culinary delights of "Chez Fancy Pants" weren't sitting quite right. Now, Tanner, being the resourceful fellow he is, attempted damage control. He employed the classic "cheek-lift-and-release" maneuver. A subtle shift here, a strategic tilt there, and pfft, a little pressure relieved. He thought he was a ninja, a silent assassin of the intestinal variety.
He executed this delicate operation several times throughout the appetizers, main course and thought he could make it to dessert, each time feeling a small victory. He even managed to maintain a semblance of conversation, albeit peppered with a few extra "ums" and awkward pauses. He was practically a James Bond of flatulence!
But, as they say, pride comes before a fall. Or, in this case, before a, shall we say, unforeseen expulsion.
During a particularly eloquent (or so he thought) explanation of his love for miniature dachshunds, Tanner attempted another discreet release. But this time, folks, things went south. Way south.
Instead of a polite pfft, there was... a rumble. A tremor. A biological eruption of unforeseen magnitude. And, tragically, it came with a side of something extra. Something... substantial.
Sources (a.k.a. half the office who overheard him recounting this tale of woe) report a distinct widening of Tanner's eyes, a slight paleness creeping across his face, and a sudden, sharp intake of breath. He had, in the immortal words of internet meme-dom, "sharted."
The dachshunds were immediately forgotten. The witty banter died a swift, silent death. Panic, thick and heavy as the… well, you get the picture… descended.
Tanner, ever the smooth talker, stammered something about needing to "freshen up," excused himself from the table with the grace of a newborn giraffe, and fled to the sanctuary of the restroom.
We can only imagine what transpired in that hallowed chamber. The mental anguish, the frantic scrubbing, the silent vows to only eat boiled chicken and rice for the rest of his natural life. One can only hope he had backup pants in the car. (He did so much planning beforehand but did he think of EVERYTHING?)
Sadly, the date was not salvaged. As time ticked on, the poor abandoned diner wondered if it was something personal. Tanner emerged from the restroom looking like a man who had stared into the abyss and found… well, let’s just say it wasn't pretty.
The check was paid, awkward goodbyes were exchanged, and Tanner reportedly made a beeline for home, leaving a trail of shame and, potentially, lingering… aromas… in his wake.
So, the next time you see Tanner (most of his time is spent in Palm Springs), maybe offer him a sympathetic smile (and a box of Imodium). And remember, folks, even the best of us are just one dodgy digestive system away from a first-date disaster of epic proportions.
And Tanner, if you’re reading this, we still love you, maple bars and all. Just maybe lay off the fancy French food for a while, okay? And perhaps invest in some dark trousers. You know, just in case.