Jon and I were having dinner at Motorino, which is the kind of fabulous brick oven pizza place that thinks nothing to putting ramps on the menu, and the kind of restaurant where it’s practically impossible not to overhear thoroughly engaging conversations between strangers at the tables around you.
Three guys, 30 something. One was getting married. One was the best man. The other guy was mainly eating pizza. Talk turned to the all important speech.
“Well obviously, I’m going to tell the Tangiers story,” said the best man.
“Absolutely not,” vetoed the groom.
“But it’s the best one! Come on!”
“No way,” the groom was adamant. “Her family is totally strict. Literally no way.”
“But it’s such a good one!” whined the best man.
“Not really,” said the groom to be. “You pull down your pants, you tuck it in, everyone thinks you’re a girl. That’s it. End of story.”