Love Isn’t The Only Thing That Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry

Saturday night was Becky’s bachelorette party. There were seven of us at The Shout House, a dueling-piano sing-a-long kind of bar and restaurant on Hennepin Avenue. I’ve reason to believe it’s a franchise, so there are probably more of them somewhere. The drinks are good (but not very strong) and the food is passable.

And the waitstaff is something else.

The first time it happened, I glanced at Kathy – at the same time she glanced at me.

“You smell that?” she said.

“Smell it? I was about to accuse you of it.”

“Me? If I smelled like that I’d be running to the bathroom.”

We both turned our heads, noses wrinkled, looked around. The room was packed to its edges with tables, 80% of them fully-chaired with gaggles of other bride-to-be’s and their friends, decked out in various combinations of glued-on condoms, rubber penises, cowboy hats, and what seemed to be a desire to look like a hooker.

You really have to give some of these gals credit in the dressing decoratively category.

As was noted at one point in the night – and brought to its logical conclusion when the gal bent over later and showed us not only her underwear but lost a breast in the process – just because it stretches doesn’t mean it fits.

Word to the wise.

But back to the smell.

Because five minutes after its introduction, the smell returned.

“Whoa!” Wendy said, from across the table. “What the hell is that?”

Kathy (mother of a one-year-old) and I turned to each other, smiling.

“Smells like someone needs their diapers checked!” she crowed.

Because there it was again. The dreadful smell of someone’s intestinal gas.

Kathy and I looked around again.

“If it’s not me, and it’s not you, why do we keep smelling it at our table?”

“You gals need another drink?”

And there was our waitress.

Kathy and I smiled at each other. Could it really be our waitress delivering this horrible, and repeated, smell?

It was confirmed with our next round of drinks; and on four subsequent visits to our table, in this crowded and incredibly loud bar, our waitress left us a little something.

Almost a tip, really.

We’re thinking that the tip is something in the area of “being in a crowd of people doesn’t make the smell dissipate any faster”.

Or maybe it’s “don’t drink a lot of cheap beer the night before work”.

Either way, well done, Fart Lady. I think we all learned a little something Saturday night.