About 4 dates into it, he told a “funny” anecdote about having a good run at a blackjack table and not wanting to get up. Thinking he only had to fart, he let it slip, but something else came out. Not such a good run after all.

What bothered me most was that he told the story like it happened all the time and it wasn’t a big deal. From that point on, my friends and I all called him “Mr. Poopypants.”

Aftermath: I stopped returning phone calls. I bumped into him years later at a bar. After a couple beers and chatting, he asked why I stopped calling. I relayed the story. He assured me it was the only time it ever happened. I still didn’t date him.

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