I admit to not speaking in the clearest of voices at times, but in my defense it’s not my fault you don’t understand my mumbling. Wait? What I meant to say, is in my defense I am not the floor manager of a somewhat successful, overly loud restaurant who’s sole or is it soulless job is to be really loud, obnoxious and to push butt plugs, punched butt plugs, on everyone. No matter that they have a maw full of food, trying to impress their girlfriend-spouse-date with their mad video poker skills (the look on the date’s face as he explained how he was an expert was worth more than the desultory food in front of me) or are trying to escape the hell that is this place that they walked into because they saw an endcap of Frank’s Hotwing Sauce at Meijers and decided upon a whim, that going here was easier than making wings at home.
Why the floor manager could manage to be so very clearly loud in any part of the restaurant, yet totally flub the one important line he had…”You had one job! One job!”...I will never know, but (ha) it was funny. At first, because we were the only people in the restaurant, I thought it was just me hearing something; after all the manager had just managed to take the decibel level of a place that borders on unnecessarily deafening in the first place to, “Holy crap, my ears are bleeding and why is he yelling and laughing so loud?”
“Have you heard of our butt plug?”
The confusion must have been very apparent on my face because he kept going.
“This is our butt plug,” holding up two punch cards.
“Oh, those. We have a few of those on our counter,” I said suppressing a smirk or trying.
He slumped upon hearing we were familiar with his butt plug…sorry grub card…undeterred he offered to, punch our butt plug. And then he did.
The card sat on the table, punched and unloved for the meal. Not sure if I had heard what I heard, I went about eating a meal that I could only decry as, “Damn you Frank’s Hot Wing endcap and my lack of interest in making wings.”
Soon enough more people showed up and confirmation that enunciation matters began.
“Allow me to punch your butt plug,” to the table of businessmen.
“Are you members of our butt plug,” to the family of three.
“Would you like to hear about the butt plug card,” holding up a card and his hole punch to what I can only hope was the worst first date ever with the best video game poker player ever table. At that moment, I wasn’t sure what I should be laughing at more, the endless parade of offers of a butt plug or a punched butt plug or the woman with a boy determined to impress her with his mad video poker skills, backwards hat and all. I opted for both.
Remember enunciation matters. Punched butt plug indeed.