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It was 2.30am in Atlanta during a Grateful Dead weekend.
My girl and I were sitting with a stripper we had met at the Pink Pony nude club next door.
Someone ordered grits.
Yoo-hoo! I need another plate of critters, pronto!” chorused the flamboyantly gay waiter.
I hope my boyfriend doesn’t find out I came here with you,” the stripper said. “He’ll think I fucked you.”
You did,” came the reply.
A group of Deadheads sat down at the dirty table next to us and hungrily ate what remained on the previous occupants’ plates. One even licked up the bacon grease.