This really happened.

You know how sometimes you are out to dinner with your husband, your husband's friend, and his wife, and you're all having a nice little chuckle over a Bloomin Onion, and then your husband's friend tells this story where you're listening and you're laughing and going, "Wow!" at all the appropriate moments, but in your head, you're like, "This story is soooo exaggerated that I bet maybe 37% is true and the rest is strictly for effect, but I'll still nod and smile and sip my Wallaby Darned as though I haven't a care in the world?" Well, you're going to think this is one of those stories. But, it's not, and I have the evidence to prove it.

Tonight was a ladies night, and the feeling's right, oh yes it's ladies night, oh what a night. Two of my best friends are about to issue forth children from their wombs, so another best friend of mine and myself met the two ladies-with-child for a veritable Americanized Italian feast at good old Buca di Beppo. Our night was rolling along. We laughed, we told stories, we yougogirled, and then, out of nowhere, this lady walked up to our table and - very solemnly to fit her clearly somber panties-in-a-wad sourpuss mood - hands us a folded up Buca menu and asks us to read the inside when we get a moment. My first thought was, "F**k. I must've dropped a dozen or so too many 'f**k's for this lady's taste." I was awash with guilt looking around at the faces of my waaay more respectable friends, when one friend, probably the most respectable friend, grabbed the folded menu, began reading, and gave us an, "Oh, hell no."

Here's the note (and, by all means, click if it will help you better see her profound words):

I hope you could read that. If not, I'll recap: Apparently, we upset an eight year old pantywaste revealing through our astounding revelations that he wasn't miraculously transplanted into his mother's snugglywarm cradle of love by the wise old stork; instead, he perhaps learned that he swallowed some of his own Exorcist-colored crap on the way out of his mom's bloody, smelly, mangled shoot, entering a world filled with confusion and angst. Oh, and I guess we must have said ADHD is an overused, played out excuse for people to act like assholes. I have a feeling our "table neighbor" may have had her own personal Adderall prescription filled a time or two.

It's like this: my friends and I have all done time employed by the public education system. You know what? By the time most kids are eight, they have already beaten their meth habits and impregnated hookers with hooks for hands behind their language arts buildings. We know there are legit ADHD rascals, and we know that some kids were legitimately brought by the stork. But, lady, get the F over yourself. Oh, your kid has "severe ADHD"? Then how the hell did he pay such close attention to our mental crap exertion? I mean, I was only two glasses of wine in at this point, and I had trouble following the convy, much less your scatterbrained child of God.

To make this evening a total ass over the shoulder moment (wow - literally this time), an adjacent table of jolly business-casual adorned businessmen jumped on into our recount of the sitch, all the while proclaiming some, "For real?"s and some, "You ladies are okay! That woman was whack!"s. But the icing on the cake was our sweet, ignoramus waiter Francisco who, upon hearing the recount of the transpired events, said, "That kid? He seemed normal. He was even smiling and everything." Oh, Francisco; sweet, dumb, Francisco.

It all kind of makes me laugh. I mean, can't you just picture this lady moving in with her son and his wife when (yeah, right) he gets married to some poor girl because sweet little Johnny won't know what to do when his big scary wife tries to pull Johnny's little Weeble out of his pants? Yeah. Me, too.

Anyway, just thought I'd share what kind of lameys are thriving these days. I hate offending people. But, you know what I hate even more? When people offend me with their lameness.

All right. Enough. Go look at non-lame things here: humor-blogs.com