GENTLEMAN HUMOR

Entering Into a Women’s Restroom is Too Easy

In case you can’t tell, I’m a man

Christmas dinner with my close friends during November at an expensive Norwegian restaurant wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. But Christmas didn’t care if I cared. I had to play ball.

I felt like a rockstar, wearing my James Bond suit, eating the traditional Norwegian ribbe (pork rib), and drinking alcohol with stunning girls.

Feeling festive, I’d ensured the resourceful restaurant was fifty minutes away from running out of alcohol. The restaurant had ensured non-resourceful myself was a hundred minutes away from running out of money in my bank account. It was a race against time and money.

Sitting opposite to me was my close friend Margarita — a Russian brunette. I never told her she’s the third most beautiful Russian girl I know. But she probably knew I’d thought so.

Our table was so big that 18 people were sitting around it. The restaurant’s classy atmosphere with its elegant chandeliers reminded me it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

You Gotta Love the Brunettes

Sipping her exotic blue pineapple margarita, Margarita curiously asked, “How come you never lose control of yourself even when you’re as drunk as a skunk? That reminds me now— you’ve always enjoyed losing in beer pong.”

I looked her in the eye, “Good observation, Marge. The truth is— I’m already as dead as a herring. Nothing ever happens to me.”

“That makes sense. You don’t stink that bad though, you know, for a deadman.”

“Very funny! You know deadman is a figure of speech, right?”

“What’s a figure of speech?” she asked.

I respectfully said, “I take that as a rhetorical question. Clearly, you’re taking the piss. Now I gotta go to the restroom and take a piss myself. It’s urgent. I’ve had too much beer.”

“Hold on now. What’s a rhetorick question?”

Brunettes!

Losing my patience, as I was about to show her my middle finger, her cute Russian accent made me show her my nearby index finger instinctively, which apparently meant, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

What’s the Deal With the Russian Brunettes

Before I went to the restroom, I took a detour. There was another emergency — to meet my other Russian brunette friend Irina who was sitting two tables away from me. I wanted to confirm Irina knew what’s a rhetorical question.

“Yo, Irina! You and your dashing outfit! My word!” I excitedly remarked.

“Is there a question?” Irina politely responded.

“Funny you mention question. About that — you know what’s a rhetorical question, right?”

“I take that as a rhetorical question,” she showed me her middle finger.

This time, to this Russian brunette, I showed her my middle fingers from both hands. Screw the cute Russian accent.

There’s No RestRoom For the Wicked

That detour wasn’t exactly fruitful. I said to myself, “Gotta pee now.”

I rushed into the restroom and I was surprised to see Margarita there doing her makeup.

“What’re you doing here? You’re insane,” I expressed my annoyance.

“What’d any girl do in a restroom? Makeup, duh! What’s so urgent now that you’ve come here to see me?”

“I told you my emergency. I have to pee. Get out of here before anyone else comes. Go to women’s room, for heaven’s sake.”

“You idiot. This is women’s. You get out now.”

I Am Never wrong

The last time I was wrong was during the second world war. And, I wasn’t even born then.

There had to be a mistake, surely.

I hesitantly came outside of the restroom and looked at the outside sign carefully.

I couldn’t differentiate the sign between the men’s room and the women’s room. Some would argue I was drunk. But even a sober me could never tell the difference.

There weren’t any writings of “men” and “women” either.

Just the two dang similar signs.

My instinct told me Marge was messing with me because she knew I was holding my pee. My instinct told me to go back inside.

If there was one thing I knew about myself, it was that my instinct is always wrong. So I decided to do the opposite to avoid potential embarrassment.

I went to the other restroom, confused, and waited outside to confirm with anyone.

Within a minute, a guy went in.

I stopped him, “Excuse me. Are you sure this is a men's room?”

“Ah. By the looks of it, Yes. Do you want to go to the women’s room?” he responded sincerely.

“Oh, I was there just now, apparently. No, thank you!”

Half Sober Hindsight

• I was drunk
• I had to urgently pee
• The women’s restroom was apparently the closest — easier to enter
• Margarita was welcoming in the restroom when she should’ve freaked out to see me
• The writing on the wall should’ve been there to compensate for the lack of any significant difference between the signs of men and women.