The Kiwi Story

I was at a buffet with my friend, and her boyfriend. My friend got a kiwi from the fruit basket in the buffet line, and sat down at the table with the fuzzy brown fruit on a plate. Just before she could cut it, she got caught in a fit of giggles.

“Justin,” she says to her boyfriend, “tell the kiwi story.”

“What are you talking about?” he says, face blank and confused.

“Oh, c’mon. It’s really funny. Don’t you remember the kiwi story? About the time…with the kiwi?”

He assured he that he doesn’t.

“What’s the kiwi story?” I asked.

My friend’s giggles were welling up tears in her eyes.

“Please, Justin, you tell it. I can’t tell stories.”

“I swear, I don’t know it. You tell it,” he replied.

“No, no” she insisted, wiping her eyes,” it’s really stupid.”

“C’mon,” both Justin and I pleaded.

Nearly on the verge of a second wave of laughter, she wheezed, “I just can’t tell it,”

“Well, now you have to tell it,” I urged.

“Ok, ok. You really want to hear it?” she asked again.

I told her that I have to now, after all the suspense. Her face straightened up, she swallowed some water, and gave us the information we had been waiting for:

“It was rotten.”