Of Little Smokies, Burger King Crowns, and Car Windows That Don't Roll Down: My Worst Date

An undisclosed older gentleman in high school (let's call him Steve) asked me to the girls' preference hat match dance. Repeat, HE asked ME to the GIRLS' CHOICE dance. Ricky had already been asked, so I said yes.
He showed up on time, but was dressed in a dirty white t-shirt and dirty jeans. I wouldn't have known this if he hadn't apologized profusely about not getting around to the laundry.
He chose the hats, since it was a hat match dance. He pulled out a gorgeous, ornately decorated, jeweled crown, which I put my hands out to receive and place on my head. "No, no," he said. "This is the king's hat. This one's yours."
Burger King crown. Poop.
We drive away to the Attack of the Clones soundtrack, off to Dutch Oven Buffet, a buffet style restaurant serving delicious savory pioneer-like food. This is where we had our twenty minute long discussion of the various aesthetic aspects of one Winona Ryder. "I just love her. She's like, my ideal woman, you know?" Steve spoke with his mouth full. I nodded.
Steve ate little smokies for dinner. And when I say little smokies, I mean he had a Coke, his napkin on his lap, and two and a half platefuls... of LITTLE SMOKIES. No veggies. No roll. No dessert. Little. Smokies. To this day, come near me with so much as a Vienna Sausage and I dry heave a little.
Steve brilliantly brought enough money for dinner, but not for the dance. I suggested we just rent a movie and call it a night. (I had no intentions at this point of showing up anywhere near my classmates with this Burger King crown on my head.)
We walked into Hollywood Video, where Steve decided it would be more fun to just walk around and look at the movies than to actually rent one. To his credit, I love movies. I love talking about them, thinking about them. But... this was just odd. Especially because he knew all the lines to all the Weekend at Bernie's and quoted them as we walked along.
Next we hit Albertson's, where he thought we could look at magazines. There I was, a Burger King crown on my head, sitting in the magazine section pretending to read Seventeen, but really I was hiding from the general public, spying on Steve flipping through Cosmo, and trying to hold my breath.
"Sorry, that was me," he said as I gagged on the rancid little smokies air. "Guess those little smokies didn't agree with my stomach."
And that was the conclusion of our date, him farting the whole way home, very putrid, barbecue-y cocktail weenie farts, me trying to go one more second without clean oxygen. I went to roll the window down, but "it's broken," he told me. I nearly died.
To be fair, he didn't stand me up, make me cry, or ask me to sleep with him to "check and see if he's really gay." (All those things would happen to me at later times on later dates.)
Still, could go down in history.