Uncle Matt says ‘oh, no’ to fro-yo
I recently asked someone to ask her husband if it would be OK if she and I went out on a single date when I finally arrived in her town. She replied with, “Maybe we can have some fro-yo.”
Allow me to dissect and parse the sentence “Maybe we can have some fro-yo.”
Maybe/ we can have/ some fro-yo.
First off, we need to discuss what I’m willing to eat on the first date. My dear reader can read anything he or she wishes into that statement. I am discussing the fro-yo. Who says fro-yo like that? At first, I had no idea what she was talking about. I thought it was some West Coast hippy Liberal thing. Maybe it had to do with kale and global warming.
I was wrong. She was referring to frozen yogurt.
FROZEN YOGURT? I bless you with my presence only to have some kind of bull-crap dairy product? Farmers agitate the cows when they say, “Bessie, I need to milk you for the frozen yogurt consumers.” The cow replies, “My milk is being made into frozen yogurt? Thanks a lot Obamacare.” Then the cow calls into question the dairy farmer’s sexual orientation. Little did the cow know, the farm was on Fire Island.
Frozen f’ing yogurt? Whenever I think about yogurt, I feel so unsexual. Nonsexual. Nein sexual. Understand what I am saying? Mr. Happy becomes Mr. Iwanttohangmyself. You know why? It’s those stupid commercials with John Stamos. Yeah, Uncle Jessie. I see Uncle Jessie in those stupid greek yogurt commercials. It’s hard to feel your sexuality when all you can think about is Uncle Jessie and his jerkoff band playing Beach Boy cover tunes. Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen at 2 years old?! GET ME OUT OF THIS FULL HOUSE HELL!
Uncle F’ing Jessie can go work at a McDonald’s as a night manager as the good lord originally intended.
As the words “maybe we can have some fro-yo” flash into my mind like a pylon from a nuclear blast shelter, I try to compose myself. This is how panic attacks start.
Someone else was trying to tell me about the “yummy toppings” you can put onto frozen yogurt. Um, are those toppings pizza, Steak Diane, Bacardi rum or hot blonds? Seriously, this is like saying urine tastes good if you put some honey into the warm cup. I understand my fro-yo friend is from California — a culinary wasteland is dystopia. A yummy topping? You couldn’t get me to eat frozen yogurt if there was a hundred dollar bill on the bottom of the dish.
Ever watch the pie-eating contest in “Revenge of the Nerds”? They wondered why the nerd’s pies were selling so fast. It was because there was a picture of a naked woman on the bottom of the dish. I know what you’re thinking. Matt is such a filthy pig that he would eat a dish of frozen yogurt to see a photo of a naked woman. You are wrong!
I have Google and free internet porn! You almost got away with it, you sneaky butthole! Can’t fool me into fro-yo! If you’re trying to trap me into a snare, don’t use frozen yogurt. I am Polish — use kielbasa or pierogies. In fact most women should lather themselves in tubed meats if they ever want to create a good first impression upon yours truly.
The theory about dating me is boiled down to two very easy to follow and simple rules. Memorize them.
Don’t be a bore.
Don’t you ever ask me out for frozen yogurt.