On Saturday I went out for happy hour with my friend and four, happy, major conversation, and whiskey-filled hours later we ended up at a dive-ish bar. On the wall of the Ladies(?) room above a black vinyl chair I saw this sign:
I frequent some classy spots, no?
My first thought was: Is The Shagging Chair like the Sorting Hat? (Harry Potter nerd alert)
My second thought was (and here comes the blog query): If you are shagging in the restroom of a dive-ish bar, DO YOU
AMATEURS REALLY NEED A CHAIR? REALLY?
This is the deep and meaningful query I am putting out there today, because it’s all I’ve got right now.*
*For my own reputation I will declare that although this post is down and dirty and shallow as a puddle of spit on hot Alabama asphalt, the other writing I did tonight was as deep as, well, something to do with your Mom and I can’t post that here. And now I will stop typing… with apologies to my daughter for having to read this. Sigh.