A STUTTERER, RICKY, IS ON A BLIND DATE WITH AN INDECISIVE WOMAN, CHERYL.
Ricky: “W-w-w-w-w-w-where would you l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-like to go for d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dinner?”
Cheryl: “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”
Ricky: “What k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-kind of f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-food are you in the m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-mood for?”
Cheryl: “Anything, really.”
Ricky: “C-c-c-c-c-could you pick?”
Cheryl: “I’m not good at picking restaurants."
Ricky: "Well, what k-k-k-k-kind of food do you want?"
Cheryl: "Oh, I don't care, really. I’m totally not a picky eater. I’ll pretty much eat whatever you put in front of me. So, wherever you want, I'm game.”
Ricky: “Great. Then Indian, it is.”
HE STARTS WALKING DOWN THE STREET.
Cheryl: “Indian?”
Ricky: “I t-t-t-t-t-t-t-take it you d-d-d-d-d-d-d-don’t like Indian?”
Cheryl: “Not really, no.”
Ricky: “Oh.”
Cheryl: “I’m sorry.”
Ricky: “It’s no problem. W-w-w-w-w-what about Italian?”
Cheryl: “Ooh, that's my favorite!”
Ricky: “Oh, mine too. You're going to love this place I know on Third.”
Cheryl: “Do you mean Mama LaPasta's?”
Ricky: “Yeah.”
Cheryl: “Ooh, my best friend, Diane, went there and did not give it a favorable review.”
Ricky: “Then g-g-g-g-g-g—“
Cheryl: “Gorgonzola's on Montana? I love that place.”
Ricky: “Then g-g-g-g-g-go yourself, bitch.”
HE WALKS OFF.
Cheryl: "Huh -- But -- Why -- What -- Pfft. How rude."
