the Fuzzy Thingy wrote:My... thighs... My poor, poor abused thighs...
That reminds me of something I did to a friend of mine that made it impossible for him to *ahem* properly have relations with his wife that night when she got back from an extended trip. He had the gall to blame
me for his thighs hurting so much. Now, before your minds go all to the gutter (too late), lemme' tell you what happened.
A group of my friends meet at my place on Tuesdays for socializing and gaming. This particular Tuesday, the girls of our group all had other things so it was just the guys. Actually, "guys" is a bit of a stretch, in my opinion, since none of them has had any serious, getting-sweaty-and-dirty work experience nor exhibited any other characteristics of being under the influence of testosterone; they hate being called "metrosexuals" but the women of the group agree with me on that assessment. Anyway we had the makings of a "guys night out."
Remember my definition of "guys?" Well, these boys started off the evening by grousing about the local fare of restaurants and the paucity of "good food" for the upper middle-class neighborhood I live in. They wanted something different; they wanted something special for their dinner that night and possibly into future nights. I realized the evening took a turn south before fifteen minutes had gone by and the final exit to Mordor was looming ahead unless I grabbed the wheel. Food not good enough? Fine, I'll find better.
The place was called "Vito's" and I knew it was within walking's distance. In fact, I told them as much. Keep in mind that "walking's distance" is a relative term. We weren't even half way there when the guys started complaining about how far we walked and that they were getting tired; all except for one since he was without car for his entire adult life and walking came as naturally to him as it did me. Between the two of us we cajoled the others for the rest of the distance to the restaurant.
Once we got to Vito's, they were mortified to find out there our destination was a ritzy four-star restaurant. Before anyone of them could stop me, I walked up and stated that I and my friends want a table, inddors. The staff didn't even blink an eye as they led our motley bunch of jeans and t-shirt wearing guys to the middle table of a restaurant full of patrons wearing dinner-party-dress-casual at the least.
That whipped some of the sass out of my friends.
I covered dinner; apparently my friends wanted good food at fast-food prices. We carried on our typical conversations about socio-political change and the difference between unrealistic vs. realistic ideals. I found it interesting that most talk in the restaurant seemed to have changed to become our topic; it was like everyone else didn't want to be out-intellectualized by "the rabble" at the center table.
Then came the walk back... After a while, the one friend and I just gave up on the rest and walked at our natural pace back to my home. We had a good sit-down, talk and drinks before the rest showed up. Well, we completed our social evening with talking until midnight at which point my one friend in question stood up... and nearly fell over. He groaned and staggered in place. I thought he might've gave himself a hernia or something. That was when he said his thighs hurt.
It was the next day when I got the rest of the pictureand he called to vent his frustration at me. The total distance to the "Vito's" was 2.5 miles, less than an hour walk there and less than an hour walk back with an hour of rest in between for eating. At least his wife agreed with me that it was not
my fault he was in such poor shape.
