Dirtman, John Boy and Sisiggy walk into a bar...
Okay, it was a TGI Fridays, but work with me here.
So I ordered a drink. And I got carded.
Actually, I was rather annoyed. On a good day I perhaps don't look my age of 51. But I know I don't look 25, no matter how flattering the lighting or if it's one of those days the planets align themselves just right and the gods are looking favorably upon me and decide to make me look marginally attractive for the moment. (No, no, no, no, no, no. I know some of you are just itching to reassure me that I'm being too hard on myself because usually the reason people write self-deprecating personal facts about themselves is so people will do so. But, really, I need you to understand that I am merely stating fact for the purpose of the story. I yam what I yam and I'm okay with it, honestly.)
So I was annoyed because this was such an obvious play for a huge tip. I know this because it's usually John Boy who still gets carded -- and legitimately so, since he has my dad's "never aging" gene that makes all our family photos look creepy since everyone else is obviously getting older and he looks the same all the time.
Our server insisted on playing it straight all the way, gasping incredulously when Dirtman told her I was 51 (loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, thank you so much for THAT). Of course, this made it even more embarrassing, because you could tell everyone else around us -- most of whom were obviously younger and probably hadn't gotten carded -- were snickering, probably thinking I was actually flattered.
The coup de grace was when we got the bill for one Tanqueray Martini with olives: $8.39.
She couldn't just ask Dirtman if he wanted a lap dance?