My friend George has a theory as to why the world has gone to shit with all this political correctness.
“I used to be able to get a Singapore Sling to go.” He says.
Of course, the fact that motorists are no longer allowed to impersonate a flying Wallenda behind the wheel has nothing to do with being politically correct. A drink with gin and brandy should never have a side of steering wheel. But George ain’t a sociologist, and I ain’t changing his mind.
The writer in me loves to provoke and observe the soapbox of a man who has led more lives than a stray cat. George has been a family friend since I was old enough to curse in context. His heart of gold can be hard to find sometimes, since it happens to be sheathed in titanium. But he’s good people.
This generational harpoon, linking the death of “One for the Road” with a societal downgrade, it’s comical. My attempts to elucidate on the matter of the chasms which occur whenever one generation hands the keys to the next are met with brickwalled harrumphs and guffaws.
“Those were the days . . . Singapore Slings,”
There’s no well of contrition with George, but I’ve obviously scored because I can feel a changing of the subject coming. His segues are comedic gold.
“It reminds me of when I used to drag race down Crossbay Boulevard for money. You want to get laid? Drag racing.”
“You ever drag race?”
“No, but I got laid plenty so I figured what was the point?” I respond.
“You fucking kids,” He laughs. “These drag racing movies today . . . and this YouTube . . . it’s all bullshit. It used to be like chariot races, every weekend.”
“It was all about love of the game with you guys.” I say.
“And to get laid, don’t forget.” He responds.
Wheel of Fortune is providing background noise, until he starts paying attention to the broken puzzle on the screen. “That Pat Sajak . . .”
Here we go.
“He’s gay.” George says.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask.
“He worked with that knish (Vanna White) all this time and he never schtupped her!”
Nicholas Sparks? Your day job is safe.
“There are only a million explanations . .” I say.
“No, just one. He’s gay.”
“Maybe the timing was never right, or maybe they knew each other too well. Maybe they didn’t want to ruin the franchise, or their friendship . . both.”
Hey, I tried.
“What does fucking someone have to do with friendship?” He asks.
Spoken like a man thrice divorced.
“It’s kind of important.” I say.
He solves the puzzle before adding “Fucking kids.”
“I know, we really screwed things up mightily when we allowed emotions in the same door with sex.” I say.
He’s growing tired of bitching, I can tell. He asks me if I want to grab a bite with him and I’m down with that. His banter with the waitresses is something to behold.
“Singapore Slings . . .” He says, his voice trailing off.
He”ll never change. Not that I’m complaining.