Richie stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with the kind of fear only a man who's just stepped on a conversational landmine understands. Donna, hands on hips, glared at him with the intensity of a thousand suns. “Well, I’ll definitely know better than to ever ask for your opinion again! “ She hissed, red faced, as she angrily tugged off her new blue jeans.

"Donna, babe, I didn't mean chunky like chunky; I meant it like... like chunky peanut butter! You know, the good kind, full of... flavor?" Richie stammered, his attempt at recovery slipping on the verbal banana peel.

Donna's eyebrow arched so high it could have found a new home in her hairline. "Flavor, Richie? Really? What's next? You're going to tell me that these jeans are 'seasoned with experience'?"

Richie, sweating now, tried to navigate the minefield he'd laid for himself. "No, no, of course not! It's just that... well, you're like fine wine, you get better with... with age?" The words tumbled out like clowns from a tiny car, each one more ridiculous than the last.

"Fine wine? Richie, I'm 28, not 82!" Donna crossed her arms, her foot tapping out a rhythm of impending doom.

Desperate, Richie grasped for anything that might resemble a compliment. "And like a fine wine, you're... you're complex and... full-bodied?" The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees as Donna's stare turned icy.

"Full-bodied? That's it. I'm going to my mother's," Donna declared, snatching her purse.

"No, wait! I mean, you're not just a spring chicken, you're... you're the whole farm! A delightful, charming, organic farm!" Richie's words were a runaway train, and he was tied to the tracks.

Donna paused at the door, shaking her head. "I can't even with you right now, Richie."

As the door slammed shut, Richie slumped against the wall. "Maybe I should just stick to sign language," he muttered to himself.