almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

I passed yesterday's Happy Hour pleasantly at BW3 with a pair of the establishment's employees who were already in the process of getting 'happy' when I arrived. Both of the off-duty table servers - one a young man and the other an extremely cute young woman who reminds me very much of a former flame from college - were laughing and drinking like there would be no tomorrow, ably holding down one end of the bar.

I joined in, and in short order found myself buying a round, relishing the bar experience once more, and for a brief moment feeling as though I were back in Hamtramck sitting on my favorite stool at Lili's. Ahh... those were the days, eh?

Anyway, at some point during our drunken conversation, I told your 'This woman goes to her doctor for labia-reduction surgery' joke. Bear in mind, these two are in their mid-twenties, and were more than a little loaded at the time I told it, but their reaction was completely unexpected.

You see, I've practiced that joke, polished it like the gem that it is. I have it 'down', as they say, and I expected the same hoots and hollers that followed every other time I've told the joke since you related it to me (except for the time I told Louis - but that's another story). Anyway, upon delivering the punchline I was met with a pair of blank stares and a chorus of “I don't get it”.

“Listen,” I told them. “You guys must be drunk because that's a funny joke. You know what labia are, don't you?”

The guy looked at the girl and said, pointing towards her crotch: “Isn't it that stuff you have down there?”

“Yeah, it's what I got down here,” said the girl, laughing. They still didn't get it.

“Well,” I said, “they do plastic surgery down there if that stuff is too big. I know. I've seen the pictures.” Another pair of blank stares. I made a flap-like motion with both my hands. “And the doctors removed the extra... and made ears for the guy who had his burned off.” I then transferred the flap-hands to either side of my head to demonstrate.

“Eeeewwwww!” from both in unison as they just then understood.

I guess the point is this: BW3 isn't Lili's, but I sure as shit wish that it were.

Cheers and Warm Regards,
'Tipsy' Sherman

PS: Just prior to Happy Hour I had been doing my laundry at the old Wash 'N' Dry in Ferndalia, which continues to decline as each day passes. Every other machine in the place was broken, and even though the weather was ninety degrees and humid, I found it much more comfortable to sit outside on the bench as I read my book of Quentin Tarantino interviews, the feeble and overworked air conditioners inside dripping fat plops of condensation into a series of buckets strategically positioned below each unit. I believe it was Jean-Paul Sartre who said: “Hell is other people.” I'll go him one further and say: "Hell is other people, and they're all doing their laundry. And they brought their kids."