Your Nuts are My Pleasure

You know I work in a totally classy establishment, right? I know it's classy because we have candles on every table and our martinis cost $15 each. We also wear all black uniforms. Class-A, indeed. Last week when a gentleman called me over to his table during the performance, I assumed he needed another glass of our top-notch pinot noir or maybe he wanted an order of our Poisson d'or des Biscottes* that are a steal at $6.50. I leaned in to learn his request and he whispered into my ear something that was decidedly un-classy. "Can you turn down the air conditioning? I'm freezing my nuts off." I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you! How did this older gentleman in a nice suit with his distinguished grey hair feel it was alright to assault my virgin ears with such a horrific expression? Never mind the fact that it was about 90º outside and we needed that air conditioning on. Never mind that we do not use language like that in my work place. Never mind that he was in the company of a lady friend who would have been disgusted by such disturbing vernacular. What I found most shocking was that this old man even knew that his testicles were still there. They probably hung so low that one of them was tucked into his sock. They were probably covered in so much gray that a whole vat of Grecian Formula would surrender at the challenge. They probably only produce sawdust and sadness. But nevertheless, he was worried that his nuts would get so cold, they would shrivel up, fall off and roll away under booth six never to be seen again until I sweep there. (So never.) Since I have all the care and concern in the world for this man's nuts, I rushed to the thermostat and raised the temperature. I did not want to be held responsible for a man losing is precious nuts. Be they acorn, betel, pecan or walnut, cashew, almond, filbert or beech, I do not need that responsibility.

About ten minutes later I went to check on the temperature of his testicles. "Sir, is everything better now? How are they hangin'?" He assured me that all was fine down below. I shook off the mental image and removed his empty wine glass and asked if he'd like another. He did. I brought it. We were good.

As he left, he thanked me again for adjusting the A/C. He left me a good tip but I got more from him than just 20%. I learned something. Thanks to Mr. Icy Nuts, I know now that even though I work at a place that is as classy as all get out, that even the riff raff will sometimes sneak in. Underneath their fine Italian suits and rigid demeanor, we sometimes have a guy who has no problem talking to me about his balls. I may as well work at a gay bar.

*Goldfish Crackers

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