Creme de la creme
The only place in America weirder than Harvard Square is Central Square.
An attractive Harvard girl invited me to go to a Middle Eastern restaurant to watch Belly Dancing on Sunday night. Although I usually reserve Sundays for more holy activities, I decided to abandon my religious beliefs because attractive Harvard girls rarely ask me out on dates (not even on Fridays).
We sauntered down ten smelly blocks on Massachusetts Avenue before reaching the special place. Upon entering the joint, my ears were assaulted by Middle Eastern music blasting from speakers the size of elephants. Although I had hoped to whisper romantic things to my date, I was instead forced to spittle on her as I screamed across the table, “This is such lovely spot!”
Because it is also against my religious beliefs to spend too much money on dates, I was hoping to get away with buying a Coors beer and asking for two straws. But the waiter somehow knew that I might be a cheapskate and reminded me that, on Belly Dancing Night, you have to spend at least $20 or face eviction from the restaurant. I abided by this undemocratic rule only because I didn’t want my date to get hurt in a bar-fight.
The Belly Dancer emerged from the ladies bathroom about ninety minutes behind schedule. You might think that anybody should look attractive after spending ninety minutes in a bathroom, but “makeup miracles” can only do so much for a belly. The woman was almost the same size as the speakers, and her belly oscillated so much that MIT researchers might use it as evidence for String Theory.
She jiggled and she wiggled and then she waggled a bit. The routine failed to arouse my artistic sensibilities.
After this professional finished her moment of glory, the host of the evening (aka. my waiter) announced that amateur night would begin. The fact nearly destroyed me (although I tried not to weep openly in front of my date).
A series of scantily-clad women and transvestites then paraded around the place until we both decided that we had obtained enough culture for one night.
As we walked back beneath the pulsing stars, I suggested to my date that I might better enjoy seeing her belly. She said no.
