Jackass Of All Trades

Sure, as far as a twelve-year old is concerned, Winnie Cooper is a goddess.
If we had sexually-developed pysches at that age, we'd utilize them to imagine having sex with her.
But it doesn't change the fact that she wore too many headbands.
There's a bar wench at Montana's who looks just like her.
These days I do have a sexually-developed psyche
(theoretically).
Which is why when she asks, "How many for a table?"
I say nothing.
I think I sort of make a noise. I'm not sure.
Sort of like an, "Eeee" sound, but really high-pitched.
Then my mom says, "Three."
Because I only ever eat at Montana's with my parents.
She probably assumes they're taking me there because I did well on my math test.
Shows what she knows.
I'm shit at math.

I'm worse with waitresses.
A waitresses' job (besides forgetting your waffles) is to spot rubes.
Who obviously never sleep with humans.
And will likely forfeit whatever loose change they have.
That's me.
I'm the rube.
In this scenario.
At times I'm also the putz.
The crybaby.
The wuss.
The mooch.
The 'poor lay.'
Christmas-time I went downtown with my brothers.
To some Irish place.
Which was 'Irish' the way East Side Mario's is 'Italian.'
The woman who served us could spot a rube some distance away.
He's the frail one with the mustache.
And he's had a jug of beer.
Before we exited the bar I wrote, "You should marry me" on one of my cards.
And left it on the table.
Haven't heard from her yet.
Which is weird.
But I assume she's still busy lowering her standards.
When she moves down here I'll let you know.