Best Places to Laugh at Sad People
Tucked in the quiet recesses of suburbia awaits a wealth of entertainment if you know where to look for it. Despite what people think, misery doesn’t love company. Misery loves isolation where no one uses TikToc. But sometimes misery sits in full view like that old man in the sauna with legs spread wide;
Starbuckles — Witness the couple clearly on their first date engaging in awkward banter. The man wears a forced smile, mentally downgrading aspirations from forever love to one-night hookup and sneaking too many glances at her cleavage deciding if they’re worth the effort. The woman sits patiently, having already decided he wasn’t worth the double layer of Spanks, and wondering what the next season of Bridgerton will hold. Behind them, next to the remote worker wearing nothing but house pants and a laptop, sits a lady in Lululemon sucking down a triple voltage caramel mafioso. She hides behind a duffel bag and yoga mat she has no intention of using but serves as necessary props to score her two hours uninterrupted from her children and her handsy husband who likes her in yoga pants.
Lobster Garden — Having choked down enough coffee and desperation a young couple has moved things to the next level. He tries not to glance at her breasts or the stray hairs on her chin. She wonders if his glassy stare is a sign of immaturity or emotional detachment. He makes it easy with a joke about a tiny piano and a six-inch pianist. The booth next to them is occupied by a suburban couple in their mid-forties here on date night. They rekindle their sputtering romance by staring at their phones and making small talk with the waiters. And the busboys. And the couple sitting next to them. She Googles “ethical non-monogamy”. He Googles “college girls”.
County Fairyland — A dad in black socks and sandals drags too many kids through too many temptations on too hot of a day. The dad, after bragging about three dollars he saved on admission proceeds to shell out a hundred more for unlimited access to sketchy carnival rides and a ten dollar stick of deep-fried butter. Another couple, now on their third date, walk hand in hand through stalls of carny scams. The male tries to mark his territory by winning his date a giant stuffed knockoff of SpongeBob. She strokes his biceps encouragingly. He misses the mark completely instead impaling the attendant with a dart. Twice. All three end up in the first aid tent with puncture wounds. There will be no fourth date.
Dive Bar Bathroom — Having lost in love, many now intoxicated individuals end up in these sticky confines, purging themselves of cheap booze and psyching themselves up to make regretful decisions. A leather clad man mops his face wondering if he has enough pocket change for both the condom machine and a breath mint. The object of his intensity sits in the nearby lady’s room texting her roommate about the drunk idiot in assless leather chaps. While she awaits a reply, she wonders if the neighboring stall is occupied by a couple in heat or an individual in distress. Two feet, different shoes. The evidence is inconclusive.
CostClub –The next morning the still inebriated flock repent for their debauchery at the high church of consumption where communion wafers are served as samples from folding tables. A petite woman with sweat bands takes her fifth lap at the cherry cheesecake bites still debating the commitment to a box of twenty. A man passes her confidently with a flatbed stacked with ointment for puncture wounds and six boxes of the Trojan Mega Pleasure Pack of Assorted Condoms. There is no discrete brown paper bag big enough to conceal his ambitions. He rolls through loud and proud winking at random strangers as he cruises towards the exit. The lady at the door raises an eyebrow and draws a suggestive picture on his receipt, along with her phone number. Next stop, Starbuckles.
