When I first started working at kookaburra Canyon, I was determined not to be an asshole. This can be difficult for me. I have a habit of purposely saying the wrong things to the right people in order to get laughs at their expense. I think this is why I've almost exclusively dated morons.
I lasted a record two shifts before I became the poster child for Eye Rolling and Sexual Impropriety. I got to be really good friends with My Almost Mutual Infatuation Partner, and She Who Would Eventually Become My Baby's Mama. A few months into our friendship she asked me if she looked fat. The girl is 5'3" and possibly 11 pounds, maybe 12 if you dip her in a vat of bacon grease. Maybe.
I told her that she did look like she'd put on a few pounds, but what did she expect? She was carrying my child. It was a throwaway joke and probably wouldn't even be memorable if it weren't for the next night.
I was hungover like a towel on a dormroom closet. Between paperwork and the actual waiting tables, I'd been working for nearly ten hours str---gay. My last table of the night was a group of frat boys. Like koala bears and Elijah Wood, frat boys are cute in their natural habitat, but you wouldn't want one up close and eating in your restaurant.
Fifteen minutes into their debauchery, I realize they hate me. I mean they HATE me. Enter, She Who Is Now Referred To As My Baby's Mama. It's her night off, but she stops in to meet some people after work for a few drinks. She looks a-fucken-mazing. You know, if you're into short chicks.
One of the guys at the table starts to get huge hearts in his eyes, his tongue falls around his ankles and his erection would have knocked over the table except for the fact that he's a frat boy, and everyone knows frat boys have macroscopic phalluses.
Frat Boy #1 turns to Frat Boy #Who Cares? and says "Dude, I could totally get her phone number." This starts a barrage of comments affirming their heterosexual machismo while reducing She Who Is Nearly Known As My Baby's Mama to nothing more than a walking ass with tits on them. An affliction of sight prevalent in the wild frat boy.
She Who Is Seconds Away From Being Known As My Baby's Mama has great hearing. She pivots towards the table, which does little to hush the bravado of Frat Boys The Musical. As she walks by me, she pushes my order book out of my hand and kisses me quite hard.
She looks right at the table and says "You guys are lucky My Baby's Daddy isn't a jealous man," and then walks away.
The Fratboys ask me if she's seriously my wife. "No." I tell them. "We're not even really dating, we just kind of fool around, and thought it would be fun to have a kid together."
The Fratboys name me their king, toss me on their shoulders and lead me to the infinite land of keggers and Madden Football. They also leave me a sweet tip, and ask me if My Baby's Mama has a sister.
Now the offhand comment about our relationship become a long-running joke. Nine months after the comment we name the baby Unique, and make jokes about my deadbeat-daddedness. I keep leaving for three or six month sabbaticals, and never pay child support. What can I say? I'm a bastard. So is Unique, I suppose.