H.G.T.

I have a funny story from the mexican restroom. 

I was dining out with an alarming number of loud, offensive friends at a local mexican restaurant the other day.  We weren’t being particularly fecund, but we were still managing to draw stares of hate and awe from the other occupants of smoking section. 

I decided I had to, as they say, drain the submarine. 

In the bathroom, a funny thing happened.  A man was taking his young child to use the bathroom.  The little tyke was evidently on crack.  He was bouncing off the walls, generally annoying the piss out of people – although, in retrospect, he was doing so in a proper venue – and, because the walls of this particular pissor happen to be a shade of rose I personally refer to as “miami vice gay pink,” the little tyke asked his dad if it was a girl’s bathroom.

Dad (the tit) actually thinks about it for a moment (as though there weren’t three other guys in the place using the john) and then told his son that you could tell it was a men’s room because it had urinals.  His son looked up and said “Girls don’t use urinals?” and his dad said they didn’t.

So the kid looks up at me (a large, menacing, total stranger, remember) and says “Hey mister, girls don’t use urinals.”

to which I reply.  “Except in Trinidad Colorado, that’s right, kid.”

His dad looks at me for a long moment.  Then he pats his son on the back and says “That’s right son.  Execpt in Trinidad Colorado.  This guy’s looking out for you.”

I blinked and left.