It ain't no "too boku."

A few weeks back, the lady and I were out for her friend’s birthday. The big 21. Anyway, to make things easier, and in case we ever mention her again, she’s the hippie. The friend I mean. Anyway, the great to-do coincided with the return of one of the hippie’s friends—her best friend—so the lady and I got to meet her. And her boyfriend. Both of them. To make things easier, we’ll call her the tool. The same for her boyfriend--so keep close track of pronouns.

Anyway, the tools started off by complaining that the wine list at the restaurant did not include the region the wines were from. This bothered their palettes. This angered them. They turned up their noses.

We tried to order food as group. It was a sushi restaurant. They wanted their food prepared specially however, so they ordered separately. They did not like their food. Again, their noses drifted toward the ceiling.

Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mind when people know what they’re talking about and just want to know something, or have strong enough kitchen experience to speak intelligently. What I mind is when they substitute “intelligent” for “snobby” and assume they’re close enough that no one can tell the difference.

Short form: if you want to play fancy-pants, be kind enough to visit a restaurant that charges for the service. Don’t wave your maxed-out $500 credit limit credit card in our faces and scowl while muttering about the “good” wine you had in Italy when your mom’s second to last boyfriend flew you there.

Anyway, the tools are scowling and we’re laughing and somehow we end up making fun of clinical massage therapists. You can’t call them masseurs apparently, because that’s code for hookers, and they were taught in clinical massage therapy school to be offended by that.

Now, when I say “we somehow got on the topic,” what I mean is: hippie’s current beau was a new graduate of the clinical massage therapy school, and was running late for the party, out getting his drink on with the other very much not hookers. So we mocked him and his chosen profession.

But guess who’s mother was a clinical massage therapist? Yes, the tool’s mother, and she didn’t really like it when the other tool told us so. We smiled and tried to be nice about it, while boy-tool told us how great girl-tool’s mother was. Girl-tool kept fighting it though. She was obviously embarrassed. The lady then asked if the reason toolette was embarrassed was because her mother gave happy endings.

Now, this might have been a bit soon for that joke, but a joke it was, and everybody at the table knew it. Everybody except the tools, of course. They got offended. They were angry. They punished us by not talking to us any longer.

They won’t come out with us now. They decided to move to South Carolina. Probably not because of the joke, but you never know.

Anyway, I know her mom's name, so if you’re looking for a really good masseur, I can tell you who to call.