- 11181 VOTES
From Redditor u/Kangar:
I went to my girlfriend's parents house for dinner for the first time. Everything was going pretty good until I grabbed a bottle of salad dressing off the table and shook it up. The lid was loose, and it flew off as I was shaking the bottle. Salad dressing spewed all over the f*cking dining room. It was everywhere. On the wall, on her Mom's sweater, on the chandelier, on her Dad's hair-everywhere. Everybody sat there in stunned silence, and I reacted (clearly in shock) by saying: "Unbelievable. Not even a drop on my f*cking salad."Is this a plot twist?
- 2370 VOTES
Don't Eat On The Couch (Cause You Might Sit On A Sharp Utensil)
From Redditor u/Yodagrasshoppa:
When I was around 13 or 14, I was at a buddies place, we were just... having a good time when dinner rolled around. We ate dinner in relative peace while watching a movie, his family likes to keep the lights off when watching a movie (this is important).
So movie ends, and being a good guest I take my plate to the kitchen and have a quick chat with his mom. Afterwards, I decide to go back and just relax for a little while back on my seat, now at this point I should stop and mention 2 things.
1. The lights were off and it was night
2. I hadn't used my knife throughout dinner
So as I approach the couch, my teenage brain goes "Slide into your seat, you'll look so cool." It was not cool. The moment I hit the cushion on the other side, I knew something was wrong. I didn't feel any pain, just a strange discomfort coming from the left thigh. I shift a little and still see nothing. I ask my friend to turn on the light as I need to see what is "poking into my leg."Llight comes on, I look down, lo and behold there's my knife from dinner. At least the handle portion of the steak knife any way, sticking straight out of my thigh.
Panic ensues and my friends begin to freak out, the host of the evening offers to pull the knife out. I promptly shut that sh*t down. So we decide to test whether I can stand, the fire like pain darting through me said I couldn't.
We eventually resort to calling my dad to come through and take me to the hospital. He arrives, but we realize that we're sitting in the same problem as before in that I can't walk to the car. Unfortunately for me, the host of the evening was really into lifting weights at the time, and decided the best course of action would be to carry me like a child to my father's car. The ride to the hospital was a very silent, very uncomfortable, and very shameful trip.
When we did arrive, we immediately asked for a wheelchair. The nurse guy brings it out and stands in front of the car waiting. I communicate to him that I can't even step out of the car or move the leg without feeling like literal h*ll fire is coursing through my body. To this guy's credit, he definitely showed his willingness to help, but unfortunately effort and capability are 2 completely separate things. As soon as he picked me up (from the left, I live in a non-american country) the knife handle squirmed against his stomach. I've never wanted to punch a nurse as badly as I did that night.
Eventually he gets me into the chair and off we go into the ER, go through the door and get admitted. Another nurse comes through and says she's going to have to cut me out of my pants to apply the anesthetic (to remove the knife). Now you need to understand that these jeans were the most expensive pair I had ever and still have ever owned and they were brand spanking new. So being the brave 14 year old dumb sh*t I was told her to "just pull it, I can take it" 2nd nurse I've ever wanted to punch in the face. Eventually the pain subsides and I manage to pull my pants off to apply the anesthetic.
New problem arises, before they give me anesthetic the doctor arrives and asks me some questions about how this happened, I explain it to him but conveniently forgot to mention I didn't actually use the knife for dinner. He understands it that I did use it for dinner and therefore must have food particles/segments on it. Immediately he reaches for a MASSIVE syringe with some rubber tubing on the end. He fills the syringe with water or some disinfectant and threads the tube through my wound (all live by the way) then takes a "punch you in the d*ck" stance and bashes the plunger on the syringe to flush anything out. Straight up black out pain but somehow I stay conscious through it.
Afterwards he hits me with that sweet sweet anesthetic and stitches me up. All goes good. About 4 months later, my mother gets some calls from the medical insurance, querying why her 14 year old son has a self inflicted stab wound. It took almost 2 months to convince them and their lawyers that I wasn't [at-risk] and didn't need therapy or be taken from my parents.
We all laugh about it today as the whole string of events was very funny.Is this a plot twist?
- 31427 VOTES
Husband Takes Way Too Many Edibles Before Meeting Wife's Parents
From Redditor u/drmcsinister:
Recently, I traveled to Denver, Colorado with my wife and my wife's parents. As a resident of a non-legalized state -- and as someone who is too much of a [scaredy-cat] to regularly buy [illicit-substances] -- the thing I was looking forward to most was the chance to buy fancy legal weed. What could possibly go wrong?
So the first thing I do upon arriving (and after successfully ditching the in-laws) is drag my wife to a nearby dispensary for a shopping spree. And oh my god, it was just like in my dreams. Tons of different options in neat little sample jars and a team of helpful stoners walking me through the various strains:
"Are you looking for a mellow body high? Or do you want something that gives you a bit more pep and energy? Or are you just hoping for something light to take the stress off?"
"Yes, yes and yes!" I reply eagerly, like a fat kid in a candy store, and request an eighth-ounce of about 7 different options. In hindsight, if I learned anything from this experience, it is that my math and science teachers never taught me basic information, like "what is an ounce?" or "how much weed can a person consume in a single weekend?" Sure, I can tell you when two speeding trains leaving separate stations will collide or recite Avogadro's Number, but it turns out that none of that information is particularly relevant to getting high in a responsible and efficient manner.
And it was at this dispensary that I also learned that you can't actually smoke in public places (including the hotel that my wife and I were staying at). As a result, before leaving, I begged my wife to buy some edibles that I could munch on until we found a place to properly get lit. After expressing shock as to the absurd volume of [illicit substances] that we were buying (unlike me, she is the product of private school and understands the Imperial measurement system) she relents, and we walk out of the store with what felt like a dump truck of weed plus a small package of seemingly-innocuous gingersnap cookies.
When we finally get back to the hotel room, I tear those bad boys open... only to find about a dozen tiny cookies roughly the size of a quarter. What the f*ck, Denver? Seeing the skepticism (and hunger) in my eyes, my wife warns me that I should go easy and look at the back of the package first before trying one.
"Dose size: 1/2 cookie," I read silently as I start taking micro-bites from the edges, like a giant chinchilla gnawing on a sunflower seed. But what kind of a savage only eats half a cookie? So a second later, I covertly pop the remainder into my mouth.
And then I quickly stuff another two cookies in my mouth for good measure the moment my wife turns her back. We may not have legal weed back home, but I routinely devour an entire package of Milanos in one sitting without breaking a sweat. Your move, tiny gingersnaps.
About 30 minutes later we are in the backseat of her parents' rental car on the way to dinner. And that's when things start to go tits-up. My stomach growls. Loudly and angrily. My wife looks at me with inquisitive eyes that seem to say "Diarrhea?" But I merely clutch my tummy and mumble something about altitude sickness.
"You didn't eat a whole cookie, did you?" she asks, 10% in genuine concern and 90% in seething irritation.
"Of course not." I respond, avoiding eye contact for the remainder of the car ride.
A few minutes later we are climbing out of her parents' rental car and heading into some trendy farm-to-table restaurant. I don't remember how I made it to my seat, and I don't remember even looking at the menu, but I do remember the concerned look on the waiter's face as he asked me if I was doing alright.
"Keep it together, man," I say to myself. But my wife's sudden groan suggests that I may have also said that to the waiter. Things are going downhill fast.
The waiter nods sympathetically, takes our orders, and then heads to the next table.
The moment he walks away, my wife is staring daggers at me. I start to worry that the jig is up.
"You are sweating... from your entire face," she says with both pity and disgust. Not quite knowing what to do, I reach for my napkin and proceed to blot my cheeks, nose, neck, chin and forehead.
At this point, my wife's mom looks over at me with some concern. "Are you alright?" she asks kindly.
"Yeah, the food's just a bit spicy," I reply, far too quick to realize that we had literally just ordered and that there is nothing on the table except for a basket of dinner rolls.
My wife kicks me under the table to grab my attention. "Bathroom. Now." she hisses. "Get it together." I reluctantly get up from the table and head for the toilet. After splashing several handfuls of water on my face, I approach a urinal and start to pee.
Now, one of the more disconcerting effects of those tiny gingersnap monsters is the feeling that time has become untethered from reality. As I am peeing, I start to get the very unsettling feeling that I have been taking a pi*s for the better part of an hour and that my wife must be pacing around the restaurant worried about me.
But deep down I know that is absurd: I've been peeing all my life, sometimes multiple times a day. I've probably taken more than 50,000 leaks, and it usually only takes about a minute at most. So given that my typical pee is no more than 60 seconds -- and given that it feels like I am about half way done -- that means that I've probably only been standing here about 30 seconds, right?
But the guy at the urinal next to me doesn't respond, and instead starts shuffling away from me mid-stream, like a startled penguin. I try, albeit unsuccessfully, to break eye-contact.
After finally finishing, I again splash some water on my face and return to my seat, making sure to apologize to the table "for being gone such a long time" just in case my math was off.
Next, I try briefly to engage in small talk with my wife's father, but I am far too high to understand what either of us are saying. Not wanting to start laughing uncontrollably at the wrong moment -- or, really, at any moment -- I figure the safest idea is to nod my head periodically and drink a ton of water. Nothing cures mental fatigue like water, right? To my wife's horror, I stand up, grab my water glass and thrust it out to the waiter, who unfortunately is on the opposite side of the restaurant. But he turns out to be really cool and, after making his way over to our table, tells me that he'll do his best to keep me stocked with ice water for the rest of the meal. He also helpfully suggests that if the dinner rolls aren't too spicy for me, I should probably eat one or two so that I'm not sitting there on an empty stomach.
However, after going through all of the bread on the table and three glasses of water, I start to get worried that I need actual food to offset the growing paranoia from those tiny gingersnap devils. "Do you think I should flag down the waiter again and ask what's taking so long?" I suggest helpfully to my wife.
"What?! We literally just ordered three f*cking minutes ago."
And at that exchange, my wife loses her cool. "HOW MANY COOKIES DID YOU EAT?!" she demands.
"Whoa, easy there, Torquemada," I respond, somewhat horrified at her outburst. "I had a few cookies, but keep it down. I don't want your parents to know how f*cked up I am right now."
"REALLY?! THEY ARE SITTING TWO FEET AWAY FROM YOU. THEY KNOW."
I look up and for the first time notice both of my in-laws just staring at me... for what literally felt like an eternity.Is this a plot twist?
- 4855 VOTES
Dinner At Boss' House - Husband Tosses Steak Out Of Window... The Window Was Not Open.
From Redditor u/mrs_defenestrator:
I had just gotten a brand new job that I was really excited about. So I was delighted when my boss - who I had been trying to establish a rapport with - invited me and my husband over to her home for dinner.
Well, mostly delighted. My husband is... well... he's the sweetest, but he has a history of doing really dumb sh*t. Because of this, I was worried about him coming along.
By the time the day of the dinner arrived, I had become so anxious about it that I actually floated the idea by my boss that I wasn't sure if he would be able to make it. She was clearly taken aback and responded "Oh no! I really hope he can, I have a dinner for 3 all ready to go." Upon seeing her dismay, I assured her that I was sure he would find a way to be there.
Well, we made it over to her apartment on time and things actually started out really, really well. It was actually just the 3 of us, which surprised me somewhat but made me a little less concerned about my husband - as crowds really tend to bring out his unpredictability.
I had just started to finally relax and was a couple bites into a deliciously cooked steak when things took a horrible... horrible turn.
My boss had just stepped into the kitchen to check on dessert when I noticed something odd out of the corner of my eye. It was one of those things where you know something strange his happening in your peripheral, but you're not sure what... you have to look over and focus your gaze to really comprehend it.
I look over at my husband and see him holding his steak in his hand, hovering it just an inch or two above his plate. Before I had a chance to fully comprehend what I was seeing and verbalize something that might have saved all of us from the coming horror.... he threw his steak - baseball style - across the room straight into the dining room window. It hit the window, making a loud noise, and slowly slid down.
Now my husband does dumb sh*t, I already told you that. But he's not a crazy person. Usually when he does dumb sh*t I at least understand what he's thinking. There' usually some semblance of rhyme or reason to the dumb sh*t.
In this case I was just dumbfounded. I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't wrap my head around what was going on. I stared at him with what must have been the most confused look, and watched as he stared back at me, an expression of utter horror painted across his face.
I couldn't make any sense of what was happening, but I also didn't have time to try. I heard the foot steps of my boss, coming to see what the sound was.
It suddenly sunk in that it didn't matter why he did what he did. He did it, and we were all about to come face to face with a very awkward situation.
I could feel the anger flush through my face. For a brief moment I contemplated trying to help my husband get out of this. But No. This was his dumb-sh*t-bed and he could lie in it. Not like there was any possible recovery anyway.
My boss walks in and sees the steak lying on the window sill. There's the f*cking longest most awkward pause where we all just sit there frozen. My boss and I are staring at my husband, forcing the ball into his court, as the cringe just hangs in the air like an ocean fog.
He finally manages to mutter some incoherent garbage about being a clutz and even tries to get me to back him up. I leave his a*s out to dry in the deafening silence.
He makes a poor attempt at cleaning the window and retrieves his steak. Mercifully, my boss asks me a question about work and we both dive eagerly into conversation.
We all resume the rest of the evening pretending that he isn't there, a sort of unspoken agreement by all that this is the only way to move forward.
As soon as we got to the car, my husband turned into a nervous chatterbox trying to explain himself.
Turns out the dumba*s didn't like the way his steak was cooked (rare) and - get this - he thought the window was open. My husband, ladies and gentleman, tried to chuck his steak out a 3-story window. He thought that was a reasonable solution to being served an under-cooked steak.
A year or so later my boss hosted a Christmas party for the company at her newly-built home. My best friend, Jennie, was my +1.Is this a plot twist?