Comedy Stories

Pink Martini

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’re ready. Besides, you don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t have a chance . . .”

“C’mon. She’s sweet.”

“She’s scary.”

“She’s sweet and scary and—six years old. Look, I think you have a distinct advantage, being a grown up and all.”

“Ugh . . . tell me what she wants to do again?”

“She wants to have tea with her mommy’s new boyfriend.”


“In the treehouse.”

“Do I have to climb the tree?”

“Yes, you have to climb the tree—in your suit.”

“Why do I have to wear a suit? I don’t even wear a suit to work.”

“She wants a formal tea party alone with you in the treehouse. Besides, you look so handsome in a suit and tie.”

“Suit—AND TIE?”

“Of course. It’s formal.”

“Like a funeral . . .”

“It’ll be fun. I really like your navy suit—and please wear your pink tie. She really likes pink.”

“If you had told me when we first started dating that treehouses and ties would be involved—”

“Nothing would have changed because you adore me. You are crazy about me. You love me.”

“I do love you.”

“And I love you, too. But it’s time—past time—for you to meet my daughter. So meet my daughter.”

“In a treehouse.”

“For a cup of tea. Or most likely a juice box.”

“I don’t like the grape ones.”

“How about apple?”

“Apple is good. I can live with apple.”

“Go back to your apartment and get changed. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“All right, I’ll go.”

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“What’s in the teapot?”


“It looks purple.”

“It’s purple tea.”

“Do you have snacks?”


“What kind of snacks?”

“I have pink sparkly cookies. Do you want one?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll take two. They look pink and delicious—and omigod—are these made of Play-Doh?”

“You aren’t supposed to eat them.”

“I thought they were real—do you have any napkins up here?”

“No. Just swallow them. Mom gets mad when I spit.”


“I can pour you some tea if you want.”

“That’s grape juice.”

“It’s in a tea cup. So it’s tea.”

“I was promised apple juice.”

“I don’t have any apple juice boxes. Grape is better anyway. Ooo. Sorry.”

“Juice boxes squirt when you squeeze them too hard.”

“I’m really sorry. Now your tie is pink and purple.”

“I think it looks better this way.”

“You aren’t mad?”

“Not yet.”

“Why do you have a hole in your pants?”

“Because whoever built this treehouse didn’t hammer in the nails properly—and they should have used 10-inch long, ¾-inch diameter galvanized lag screws and washers.”

“My dad built this treehouse.”

“It’s big.”

“He doesn’t live with us anymore.”

“Your mother told me.”

“Are you going to live here?”

“Not today.”


“Ask me tomorrow.”

“Do you want some more tea?”

“Of course—and you are right. The grape tastes better.”

“I told you.”

“Look at all this cool stuff. Coloring books. A sleeping bag. A few lizards to keep you company. You must have a lot of fun up here. ”

“I do.”

“Does your mom ever come up?”

“No, she says it’s my place.”

“Well, thanks for inviting me.”

“You want some more tea?”


“We could get some real cookies.”

“We could. Hey, I brought you something.”

“Can I open it?”


“It’s a mirror!”

“It’s a pink mirror . . . and we can hang it right—here.”


“Are you ready to go in?”

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“We better go. Your mom and I ordered pizza. I guess we could get it delivered to the treehouse next time. Pizza and tea?”

“I think I’d rather have a Coke.”

“Your mom just texted. The pizza’s here. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“All right, I’ll go.”

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“What’s in bubble tea?”

“You haven’t ever had boba tea? Jeez, you are so lame.”

“Seriously, look at this straw! It’s big enough to suck up a meatball.”

“Just drink it and don’t embarrass me.”

“Is this candy at the bottom? Skittles? Jelly beans?”

“It’s tapioca or something.”

“Why are these little balls pink?”

“They’re pretty and taste like strawberries.”

“They taste like diabetes. I feel like I’m going to choke on this stuff. Do you know CPR?”

“Not really. They tried to teach us in P.E., but the boys were being disgusting with the CPR dummies.”

“Just pound on my chest.”

“I could probably keep you alive until the paramedics arrive.”

“That would be helpful.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So . . . we need to talk.”


“I’m going to ask your mom to marry me.”

“It’s about time.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“Yeah, I’m okay with that.”

“How do you think I should ask her?”

“You realize I’m thirteen. This is not really my skill set.”

“Yeah, but you and your mom are close. You must have some advice.”

“Just be yourself.”

“I’m boring.”

“You are definitely boring, but that is something she really likes about you.”

“So, what’s the boring way to ask someone to get married?”

“Fancy dinner. Get down on one knee. Open a little pink box. She’ll cry. Everyone in the restaurant will clap.”


“And I really like your navy suit—and please wear your pink tie.”

“I threw that out years ago.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“I don’t think I’m ready. I want to finish this weird candy drink and buy a new tie.”

“Mom’s here to pick us up. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“All right, I’ll go.”

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“What’s in a pink martini?”

“Just drink it. Don’t be such an old man.”

“I am an old man. Can I just have a beer?”

“No. This is my special day, and you have to drink what I say.”

“This tastes like pink sparkly Play-Doh.”

“Oh you are impossible! Just sip it. It’s vodka, vermouth, orange bitters and grenadine.”

“That is the exact recipe for pink sparkly Play-Doh. Mmm. Delicious. The pink martini is all gone now. Are you ready to go?”

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’re ready. Besides, you don’t have a choice. Your groom awaits. How did someone as feisty as you meet such a good guy anyway?”

“It runs in the family.”

“Hey—you hear that? That organ music is your cue to get moving. Don’t keep him waiting.”

“All right, I’ll go.”

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