Beware the Thanksgiving of March

Story Sent in by Brom:

Kristy and I were at her apartment after a successful second date. I was on her living room couch, thinking I was going to score. She had left the room moments earlier, I hoped, to slip into something comfortable.

She returned with two candlesticks and candles. She set them on a nearby wooden bridge table and lit them, then cuddled up close to me.

"Happy Thanksgiving," she said to me.

It was March. I wasn't really about to argue with her, and so I guessed that she said it because it meant something special to her. "Happy Thanksgiving," I said right back to her.

She said, "It isn't Thanksgiving. You know it's March, right?"


"So why would you say 'Happy Thanksgiving '?"

"Because you said it. For some reason."

She raised a leg from where she leaned up against me on the couch, and kicked the candlesticks (with the lit candles) over, onto her floor.

"Look what you did!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet and crouching over the fallen candlesticks. She blew again and again on one of them (the other having gone out).

For the record, I didn't once touch the candles. Kicking them over was 100% her doing. After she was done, theatrically blowing them out on the floor, a few more times, she stood up and said to me, "So, happy Thanksgiving."

I didn't say anything in response. Truly, I didn't know what she was going to do next.

I had my answer soon enough. She kicked over the bridge table, in my direction. Her angle was bad and it didn't hit me. Still, it was enough for me to stand up and flee toward the door.

"Where are you going?" she crowed, "Happy Thanksgiving, happy Thanksgiving!"

I didn't wait around to hear much else. I left the psycho there with her candles and a whole lot of time to kill.


  1. I dunno...I think she wanted to Gobble Gobble you up but you were too concerned that it was March.

  2. I am starting to think that somebody's making these stories up. I mean where these people cinder from?
    Again, wish granting gods, just an idle curiosity, not a wish.

    1. I don't have a way to check if the submitted stories are true or not. If they sound within the realm of the possible, I give them the benefit of the doubt, but I admit, it's a subjective decision.

      Regarding the strange subjects of the stories, I know, right? You'd think that the world was populated by wacky oddballs with various psychoses, not the straight-edge, rational folks each and every one of us are.

  3. I never doubted you, Jared.
    I am just incredulous. It must be because of they are here all together. But this is the place for then so of they are not here where would they be?

  4. Yeah, this one seems a little fake to me, too. Not that I don't believe people do wacky shit, but because it so firmly fits the pattern of a bunch of other ABCotD stories. Almost like someone who reads the blog now and then thought, "Hey, I could write one of these!" and did. It just doesn't ring true.

  5. I totally disagree, this sounds completely true and here's why: She was obviously reliving some past Thanksgiving gone wrong with a former lover (or murder victim). Like when one of Jared's dates kept calling him by her dead boyfriend's name. These people are out there, and someone reading this blog right now has a date with them this weekend.


Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.

Content Policy

A Bad Case of the Dates reserves the right to publish or not publish any submitted content at any time, and by submitting content to A Bad Case of the Dates, you retain original copyright, but are granting us the right to post, edit, and/or republish your content forever and in any media throughout the universe. If Zeta Reticulans come down from their home planet to harvest bad dating stories, you could become an intergalactic megastar. Go you!

A Bad Case of the Dates is not responsible for user comments. We also reserve the right to delete any comments at any time and for any reason. We're hoping to not have to, though.

Aching to reach us? abadcaseofthedates at gmail dot com.