It's the day of your wife's baby shower, so while she's being fawned over by friends and relatives at her mother's house, her father and brother take you out to the movies. The three of you see Pineapple Express (decent, no Knocked Up), then afterward they take you to a bar for a drink, because none of you are particularly enthused about going back to the house and beginning the process of loading 8 thousand boxes of Baby Bjorn accessories into your car. As you sit down at the bar, you can't help but notice the two large screen TVs located straight across from you, directly in your line of sight. More specifically, the reason you can't help but notice them is because one is tuned to the Spanish Channel. As it turns out, the Spanish Channel is a bizarre network filled with shows wherein bikini-clad girls and Abercrombie douchebags spend an hour gyrating to music on a fake beach. Ten seconds of careful study reveals to you that the total cost of surgical enhancements among the women is approximately equal to the annual gross national product of Finland, and that none of them have apparently kept down a meal in the last five months. This is, as it turns out, the entire program: fifteen seconds of stripper trainees jiggling in the general direction of the camera, interspersed with two seconds of gelled-up 'roidheads scowling. Repeat as necessary. Being as your brother- and father-in-law are seated directly beside you, and the TV being located, as aforementioned, straight ahead, this presents an obvious dilemma. Do you:
A) Studiously ignore the TV, pretending you haven't even noticed it's there while suddenly finding the inside of your beer glass to be the most intensely fascinating thing you've ever seen;
B) Wait till the bartender is out of earshot, then make several calculated snide remarks about the choice of programming, and is there anything else to this show, I mean it's like spring break in Cancun meets a Budweiser commercial, for God's sake;
C) Go wait in the car, where the summer sun basting down on the nearby dumpster creates a pungent odor only too reminiscent of the soiled diapers you'll soon be encountering firsthand; or
D) Whoop and holler, chug your beer, then flag down a passing (skanky) (read: all of them) waitress and ask if she'd care to make an extra five bucks by trying to shake it like the chicas on TV.
If you know the correct answer, feel free to hop in your DeLorean, head on back to last Saturday and let me know. I'm still trying to figure it out.
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