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PDA and Mass-Shooters

December 14, 2017

 

Sir Jables: 

 

Occasionally, a couple will come into the restaurant where I work, and sit on the same side of the table so they can make out for the entire restaurant to see. It’s tacky and gross. Why do you think some people feel compelled to do this? 

 

—Kara

 

Dear Kara:

 

You think that’s tacky and gross? Imagine how that vinyl booth cover feels. Also tacky and gross, I’d imagine. And I mean tacky and gross in the sticky sense.  

 

If you’re asking for reasons beyond them simply being well-matched attention-whores, I’m going have to dig deep. Much deeper than those hands under that table are digging. They didn’t come to your restaurant for food any more than you came to me for a straight answer. So let me explore some questionable territory for your pleasure (stahp, innuendo). 

 

First, look closely. Make sure you didn’t miss anything. People who sit on the same side of the table and engage in PDA could do so for many explainable reasons:

 

Maybe they’re handcuffed together from bedroom activities they got carried away with. Suggest a fiber-rich dish for hurried passing of a swallowed key.  

 

Maybe they’re handcuffed together because they’re escaped prisoners. Suggest a sedative-rich dish while you alert the authorities.

 

Maybe they stumbled in from a three-legged race, too ravenous to bother with untying themselves. Suggest they do anyway, because that’s stupid, and they’re stupid.

 

They could be fellow food-critics who are having affairs with each other at the “office”, quite literally mixing work and pleasure in a disgustingly morsel-laced salivary way that should never, ever be attempted. Send your manager to the table to kiss their asses. He/She will thank you for the heads-up and opportunity to do so.  

 

What if they’re in love but find each other repulsive? It would stand to reason, then, that it would be much easier for them to make out side-by-side with their eyes closed (not to mention keep their dinner down) rather than having to face each other’s hideousness, though still inconsiderate of how this display would affect other diners.

 

In this situation, it may actually be to the benefit of other guests if you quietly suggest that they all join their partners on the same side of the table as well, and face the direction opposite of the Slobberwocky slopfest.

 

There’s a chance they’re simply schizophrenics, and that there are more guests at the table than you can see. Which could also mean that they’re one of those reserve-a-spot-for-Jesus types. He is their life-coach, after all. Just sitting there watching intently and nodding, encouraging them, saying, “Nice… yes… just like that.” Provide them with a salt-shaker full of crushed antipsychotics, and as the hallucinations fade, make sure to let the couple know that they’ll be expected to cover their friends’ dine-and-dash. 

 

Perhaps they’re siamese twins. The restaurant’s dark. It’s crowded. They’re wearing black. It’s an easy-to-miss minor detail. And sure, they’re siblings that are making out, and that’s a thing that’s happening. But you don’t judge, because love is love, so good for them. And, in a way, that’s self-love too. And you’re always going on about how important that is and whatnot. And no, this isn’t really what you had in mind when you were touting that. But whatever. Anything goes anymore. And you’ve got a gimp you haven’t fed in a week locked up in the chest at the foot of your bed at home, and you feel pretty ok about that. So this isn’t really something to dwell on here. This is is fine. But oh hell no if they try to split an entree. Because you still have your lines. And they must not be crossed. 

 

It’s possible, though, that they may also be highly paranoid individuals on a date. While this can’t necessarily explain away the need to swap chimichanga-flavored spit in clear view of the restaurant, it might account for why they need to sit on the same side of the table while doing it.

 

Let’s be honest. These present times are dangerously unpredictable. We never know when the next escaped gorilla might attack, or where the next mass shooting may occur. It’s a butt-clenching world we live in. And some clench their butts more tightly than others. This sort of extended clenching gives them more shapely, muscular butts than the rest of us, which attracts other clenchers. And clenchers gotta eat to refuel from all that clenching.

 

So they stiff-leggedly march into your restaurant, arms linked, with the intention of sharing a nice evening together, only to be sat at a two-top and met with two very disconcerting truths:  that one of them can’t position themselves for survival by maintaining situational awareness of their surroundings, and neither of them can cup that fine paranoia-reducing bubble-butt they’ve grown so dependent on.

 

Perhaps the tongue-wrestlers are so overcome by relief at same-side rectification that they experience a heightened level of ecstasy, leading to situationally-inappropriate behavior that leaves us all praying for that mass-shooting gorilla to show up and save us all.

 

Of course it could be that it’s all just an act. These two could be potential mass-shooters themselves, burying their tongues down each other’s throats to throw you off their scent, while their eyes dart about the room, scouting out the location in which to carry out their deadly primate-culling ritual. 

 

The point is, Kara, there’s no good reason to assume that they’re not. So always assume that they are.  

 

Have a nice night at work!

Sir Jables' vast wealth of knowledge can be tapped at sirjables@tippedoff.com. He can also be contacted by Morse code eye-blinking, intentionality in astral projection, or through his Ouija username: hailsatan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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