when dancers attack

Imagine a quiet Sunday evening at the bar near our place (the usually tolerable Four Moon Tavern); imagine being on a date with your boyfriend and having two dozen lithe, hot young dancer chicks stream into the bar, jump around, bend over, and other such nonsense. Oh, did I mention young? damn, I did. And it's not like I never talk about my hair or stores like Forever 21, but when I haven't seen someone in a long time, I don't go on a two minute monologue about how I cut my hair and how I'm now growing it out and how it'll be years before it's back to its lustrous lengthy self again and how dumb I was to even cut it in the first place, and blah blah blah.

This would have all been somewhat tolerable, even though several times women literally bent over from the waist right in front of our table, if they had just left us alone. Clearly we had nothing to do with their fundraiser for dancing, and we were just trying to eat some pub food and drink beer. But no, they were selling raffle tickets to the bar patrons, as part of the fundraising. I'd rather give five dollars to the homeless couple that didn't have enough money to pay for their food than to those uppity girls prancing around.

So I didn't really get mad, I mean really, until a hot, shapely asian chick walked by and I noticed Eric staring at her ass for what I deemed as way too long. And in typical man fashion, when I asked what he was looking at, he said, "The raffle tickets in her back pocket?!" Um, yeah, just like guys who read Playboy for the articles, honey.

So I had a good sense of humor about it in the moment, but man, I can't wait to take that yoga class this summer.

And no, I don't want a raffle ticket, thanks.