Saturday I went to a piano bar called Keys on Main with 5 other educators (all female). I’ve gone with them 2 or three times before and always had a blast; they usually play a lot of music I know and the crowd is energetic but not sloshed. This time was different. No idea why, but we were surrounded by three tables of obnoxious drunks and the music sucked. One good song for every 3 that had no reason to exist other than to use the “f” word as a verb. (I have no aversion to the “f” word except for the gratuitous use of it).
We have always stuck around until close to midnight, but this time we left by 9:30, went to Village Inn for pie. As we were walking in I noticed myself as the only male surrounded by 5 females and commented “You’d think my name was Warren Jeffs.” It went downhill from there.
The evening’s conversation was peppered with comments about the remaining two wives and the 22 kids they were watching while we were out on the town, specific roles for each of the attending 5 wives and how, as educators, we had the whole home-schooling thing covered. The waitress heard the conversation going on and I’m not sure she realized we were just joking, which brings us to one of the funniest parts of the evening.
One of the guys at the table behind us called the waitress over and the following conversation ensued:
Guy: “There’s something wrong with the bill.”
Waitress: “What’s wrong?”
Guy: “It doesn’t have your phone number on it.”
Waitress: “That’s just about the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”
If I hadn’t been in Utah, where there would really be a question of whether our polygamy talk was serious or not, I (probably) would have told her when she came back to our table:
Me: “I’ve got an even worse pick-up line.”
Me: “Want to be #8?”
I confess, I didn’t have the guts to really ask, but the rest of my group found it hilarious.