Bad Date #3: The Bad Tipper

This one wasn’t a bad date... until the very end.

Back in college, I had a crush on this guy—I still don’t know why. He was a Mexican Texan who kind of looked like Fred Flintstone, and maybe it was some weird nostalgic tie to my childhood. Who knows. But for whatever reason, I was into it.

So I asked him if he’d take me to this popular sushi spot in Gainesville. (If you went to UF, you already know which one I mean.) I ordered sushi, he didn’t, which I didn’t judge. Not everyone has the taste for it.

The date itself? Pretty chill. We ate, chatted, laughed a little. He picked up the bill at the end, then said he had to run to the bathroom.

I headed toward the front of the restaurant to wait for him.
Then the waitress approached me.

She looked uncomfortable.
I asked, “Is something wrong?”

She replied,

“Did I do something bad?”

I said, “No, why?”

She said:

“Because I only got a $1 tip from you guys.”

My jaw didn’t drop physically, but inside?

🚨 EMERGENCY. SHUT DOWN. REBOOT.

I was mortified.

I didn’t have cash on me, but I offered to tip her using my debit card—even suggested she charge me for something random just so I could make it right. She kindly declined.

My date came strolling out of the bathroom, totally unaware, and we left.
I didn’t say a word.
But inside?
I was done.

No matter how much you look like Fred Flintstone, if you leave a $1 tip and embarrass me in front of a hardworking waitress...
You’re getting ghosted.

And just like that, it was the last date with Fred.