Turning The Tables

The setting: a very crowded, bustling restaurant during the workaday lunch hour. My lunch companion-- a very quick-tongued woman in her sassy thirties-- and I are patiently waiting in line behind three very chatty mother hens, growing increasingly irritated by their self-righteous and petty conversation. Note best that the conversation here has a lot to do with what's appropriate given certain circumstances.

So, after we place our orders with the cashier, my friend and I split up and scout around for an available table. It just so happens that the only available table in the place is right next to the aforementioned three mother hens, plus one more, and their brood of 11 children altogether. Yes, eleven. Now, keep in mind, as respectful adults, my lunch companion (who shall be known as "BMC" from here on out) and I mindfully try to curb both our subject matter and our language around impressionable youngsters.

Their meals arrive courtesy of three heavily laden and visibly irritated waitresses, and shortly thereafter, so do ours, only with significantly less fanfare. By this time, their sprogs are running rampant between our tables, screaming, crying, throwing things, running into our chairs and tables, and generally making as big a nuisance of themselves as they can. One even goes so far as to send my drinking glass crashing to the floor, smiling like Damien the whole time. Naturally, in the meantime the moms have checked out. As far as they're concerned, if they can tune out their children's horrid behavior, everyone else should be able to do so. As BMC and I try in vain to tuck into our tasty lunches, very much aware of the irritation of the other patrons in our vicinity, the moms somehow fall into a very graphic, very loud and unpleasantly detailed conversation about the color, consistency, and odor of baby feces.

I wish I were kidding.

As if on cue, BMC-- who had during the drive on the way over started relaying to me her latest foray into the ongoing oral sex wars with her significant other-- ratchets up the decibels in her voice, like so:

BMC: "So I'm laying there, sucking his cock like the antidote's in it, and he's all, 'Yeah, swallow that fucking cock you cum-loving whore!'"

A sharp silence follows. But it only lasts for a quick second.

BMC: "And then I'm like..."
Me (amused at her antics): "Jeezus, you've got a filthy mouth! Watch your fucking language around the fucking kids! You know their ears are too tender for this kind of shit."
BMC (on cue): "Holy motherfucking christ, I'm so fucking sorry!"
Me: "You goddamn well should be, motherfucker."
BMC: "I can't believe I'm acting like such a sleazy cunt in front of these precious fucking children."
Me: "Just be careful what the fuck you say around the little bastards; they pick up shit like this pretty fucking fast."
BMC: "..."
Me: *smirk*
BMC: "...so I let him slip it into my pussy and then the fucker jerked and came all over my tits..."

*Deep, profound silence*

We furtively glance over at their table. The moms, mouth gaping and eyes wide, were staring at us, shocked beyond belief. One quick shared glance at BMC, and we both smiled sweetly in their direction. At which point the moms made a huge production of moving their brood to another group of tables that had just opened up beside the far window.

Wordlessly, we settle back into eating, happy for the peace. The table next to us is throwing us peace signs, and the man behind us buys us both sodas. Mission accomplished.

Now, I know it's not the most mature thing we could have done, but you know what? If you can't beat them at their own game, up the stakes. I guarantee that next time, they'll pay more attention.