By W.R. Jones
I spotted this black haired beauty sitting alone at the hotel bar on a recent trip. Before making my approach I tried to slip my ring off but it wouldn’t budge. Putting the ring finger in my mouth for a bit of lubricant, it came loose a little bit easier and faster than expected; I swallowed the damn thing.
Great, just what my stomach needed. It was already in some trouble from lunch. I had eaten in a sushi bar. My waiter was Juan – this should have been a clue. Sashimi, that’s raw fish, for you folks living just outside of Chicken Crotch, Iowa, turned out to be a selection I was to regret. I sat in this restaurant for the entire lunch hour by myself. Oh, oh – I sauntered outside to see what grade the department of health had given this place; a solid D. I was going to wakeup somewhere in the night with the ability to shit 15 feet.
I popped a couple of sen-sen in my mouth to cover wedding ring breath and headed to the bar. As is common with new acquaintances, she asked my occupation. From years of experience I knew she would not be impressed with the truth so … “I’m a doctor”. “Oh”, she says, “where did you go to school?” I didn’t like direction of this question. Don’t tell me she is a doctor; “Harvard”, I reply.
We talked for awhile when she asked, “did you meet your wife in Boston?” Well, just suck, I swallowed that ring for nothing. “No, I didn’t”, I said. These were my first honest words of the night. “Why would I meet her in Boston?” “Harvard”, she says.
Is Harvard in Boston? I always thought it was in Omaha.
Guess how the rest of the evening went.
And me, I’m back in my room reading Wikipedia – I’ve got to get my general knowledge quotient into double digits.