: The sign in the bathroom said "menu"
The fam spent a few hours whiling away the afternoon at the pool hall today. I guess that would be yesterday. Aren't we June and Ward Cleaver? We take our son to the pool hall. It's really not as bad as it sounds. No booze, just soda pop and a some time learning vectors. Anyway. The Bratchild and I spent our time taking turns pretty much not sinking anything on a quarter table, you know, the one's you have to put coins in when you go to bars and bowling alleys and stuff. The StudMuffin and the father in law (heretofore referred to affectionately as "Dad" since "StudMuffin Sr." is my serum of ipecac) did some eight ball on the table nearby. They were, as usual, fine for about twenty minutes and then the arguing started. Oi. El Studerino wanted to play it so he played by his pool league rules and Dad played by his bar buddy rules. I'm still not terribly sure what the difference is beyond the fact that Studboy had to call his shots and if he didn't hit his balls, it was considered ball in hand (a scratch where you get to put the cue ball anywhere ya wanna) for Dad or however he wanted to play a scratch. Dad just couldn't sink the eight ball, hit the balls that weren't his, or scratch off the table. Dad, of course, didn't get it. His thinking patterns just don't work that way. He's an old coot, sorry, but you just got to accommodate old coots sometimes. Pick your battles and so on and so forth. The bickering commenced for a good forty five minutes and included the usual tautologies and eventually the fact that if you didn't play bar rules, you would start a barroom brawl and if you didn't play league rules, you'd lose and your league buddies would be pissed at you. I'm a smart muffin, I hit the sacrosant ladies room when they started eyeing the place for a referee.
The pool hall ladies room features, in addition to feminine protection vending machines and "novelties" (including condoms that are "slimmer design for a tighter fit". Get a the right size and cock ring, bonehead. Them bad boys break), something called "Unique Advertising". They have a cheap, black wooden picture frame with scratch plexiglass bolted to the bathroom stall wall. Inside is lackadaisically cut picture frame matting. In addition to ads for a bail bondsman, insurance, a quick lube place out on the highway, and the ubiqutuous "Your ad here! Let our advertisers know where you heard about them!"; there was a rather disturbing notice: "City Menu Guide Coming Soon!!!"
While I can certainly appreciate the effort to supply reading material in the ladies, I'm not sure that's what I want to read when I'm in there. Then there's the let 'em know deal. I can see me telling the maitre d at the local steakhouse, oh yeah, I saw the menu in the bathroom at the pool hall while I was sitting there wishing the chickie in the next stall would stop talking on her fucking cell phone to her fucking boyfriend, wondered if I could get said chickie to pass me t.p. under the stall wall, and thought, hmm, I'm in the mood for some steak now.
There has got to be some inner transcendentalism thing going on here. You know the whole spiel, find deep life-meaning in your surroundings. Well, Thoroeau and Emerson were talking about walking in the woods, but hey, you work with what you got. For me, tight now, it's the pool hall bathroom. The silver lining in all of this was that I spent so long staring at the word "menu" and contemplating the meaning of life, the StudMuffin sent the bartender chick (she's a complete sweetheart) in to find out if I'd fallen in, had a seizure, or maybe escaped through the window and went for coffee. She handed me a roll of t.p. under the door, banged on the stall next to me and told 'Manda to get off the fucking phone in the bathroom.
The fam spent a few hours whiling away the afternoon at the pool hall today. I guess that would be yesterday. Aren't we June and Ward Cleaver? We take our son to the pool hall. It's really not as bad as it sounds. No booze, just soda pop and a some time learning vectors. Anyway. The Bratchild and I spent our time taking turns pretty much not sinking anything on a quarter table, you know, the one's you have to put coins in when you go to bars and bowling alleys and stuff. The StudMuffin and the father in law (heretofore referred to affectionately as "Dad" since "StudMuffin Sr." is my serum of ipecac) did some eight ball on the table nearby. They were, as usual, fine for about twenty minutes and then the arguing started. Oi. El Studerino wanted to play it so he played by his pool league rules and Dad played by his bar buddy rules. I'm still not terribly sure what the difference is beyond the fact that Studboy had to call his shots and if he didn't hit his balls, it was considered ball in hand (a scratch where you get to put the cue ball anywhere ya wanna) for Dad or however he wanted to play a scratch. Dad just couldn't sink the eight ball, hit the balls that weren't his, or scratch off the table. Dad, of course, didn't get it. His thinking patterns just don't work that way. He's an old coot, sorry, but you just got to accommodate old coots sometimes. Pick your battles and so on and so forth. The bickering commenced for a good forty five minutes and included the usual tautologies and eventually the fact that if you didn't play bar rules, you would start a barroom brawl and if you didn't play league rules, you'd lose and your league buddies would be pissed at you. I'm a smart muffin, I hit the sacrosant ladies room when they started eyeing the place for a referee.
The pool hall ladies room features, in addition to feminine protection vending machines and "novelties" (including condoms that are "slimmer design for a tighter fit". Get a the right size and cock ring, bonehead. Them bad boys break), something called "Unique Advertising". They have a cheap, black wooden picture frame with scratch plexiglass bolted to the bathroom stall wall. Inside is lackadaisically cut picture frame matting. In addition to ads for a bail bondsman, insurance, a quick lube place out on the highway, and the ubiqutuous "Your ad here! Let our advertisers know where you heard about them!"; there was a rather disturbing notice: "City Menu Guide Coming Soon!!!"
While I can certainly appreciate the effort to supply reading material in the ladies, I'm not sure that's what I want to read when I'm in there. Then there's the let 'em know deal. I can see me telling the maitre d at the local steakhouse, oh yeah, I saw the menu in the bathroom at the pool hall while I was sitting there wishing the chickie in the next stall would stop talking on her fucking cell phone to her fucking boyfriend, wondered if I could get said chickie to pass me t.p. under the stall wall, and thought, hmm, I'm in the mood for some steak now.
There has got to be some inner transcendentalism thing going on here. You know the whole spiel, find deep life-meaning in your surroundings. Well, Thoroeau and Emerson were talking about walking in the woods, but hey, you work with what you got. For me, tight now, it's the pool hall bathroom. The silver lining in all of this was that I spent so long staring at the word "menu" and contemplating the meaning of life, the StudMuffin sent the bartender chick (she's a complete sweetheart) in to find out if I'd fallen in, had a seizure, or maybe escaped through the window and went for coffee. She handed me a roll of t.p. under the door, banged on the stall next to me and told 'Manda to get off the fucking phone in the bathroom.
Current Mood: curious
Current Music: Santana - La Migra