Many years ago, I was unceremoniously working a brunch shift at a popular bar. It was a perfect summer day – mildly hot. Fans were slowly spinning. The band was kicking some mellow samba tunes with catchy beats. A light breeze was rhythmically rolling through the open windows. It wasn’t very busy… just a few shoppers strolling in and out, here and there.
In walks a pleasant looking couple – probably in their mid-30’s. They belly up to the bar. I bust out with my normal, inviting smile and greeting. Next, something completely uncharacteristic flies out of my mouth far, far before my cranium has chance to filter or stop it. It’s like one of those instances where you knock over a priceless vase, your mouth goes agape, and you dive to catch it before it goes kaboom – all in super-slow-ass motion. You know you’re doing wrong as you’re doing it but are powerless to stop it.
I look at the lady and go “Congratulations! When are you due?” …the one and only time in all my years I have ever called a girl out like that. The record skips. To me, it seems as if the entire restaurant full of diners stops everything and stares at me like in those old E.F. Hutton commercials. My couple at the bar looks at each other all kinds of confused and insulted – and for good reason. They then briskly make their way to the door – never to be seen or heard from again.
As you’ve likely ascertained by now, girlfriend was not pregnant at all. As pretty as her face was, she was rotund, bordering on obese, and shaped in such a way as to mimic the appearance of – you know – a knocked-up chick in her third trimester. I mean, she clearly had a large round bouncy-ball poking out of her mid-section. How is it my fault she’s shaped like Grimace? It’s not. What was my fault was opening my big fat mouth.
So, today’s Tip O’ The Day for all my fellow booze slinging cohorts – never, ever, ever vocalize your assumptions about chicks who you suspect of being sperminated. Stand in front of the mirror with a basketball under your shirt, if you have to, look at yourself repeatedly, and practice the much appreciated art of S.T.F.U. in the event such a situation arises in your hood. Never say a fucking word about pregnancy until/unless said chiquita tells you outright.