TITS!!!... now that I've got your attention... well... it's still a post about boobs...

I'm gonna bring this blog around to its roots today by getting back to my interactions with specific people. For those of you new to the experience, hopefully you'll find it pleasurable, for those of you who are used to this… well here we go again.

Over the summer I worked in Philadelphia leading tours and groups around Old City. One of the more fun tours we offered included the option of getting some drinks at a few local bars. It was basically a pub crawl, if you want to get technical.

But it was nothing more than JUST a pub crawl. Remember this… just a pub crawl... nothing more.

So in case you haven't noticed, or haven't decided to register this fact as being important (either way I'm not judging you), the great city of Philadelphia is in frighteningly close proximity to New Jersey.

GASP! The Horror!

Now, before I get hate mail. There are parts of New Jersey that are livable… well there are parts that are pretty… well there are… um… parts. We can all agree that there are parts of New Jersey. Hooray!

Here, this kinda sums it up:

I apologize for the low quality, it may have been recorded in... *shudder* New Jersey... also, is someone showering in the background?

So, since Philadelphia is dangerously close to New Jersey, we sometimes get people FROM New Jersey who take our tours. This was one of those nights.

My tour consisted of five guys who stepped right out of The Sopranos, bringing the smell of strip clubs and Aqua Di'Cheapo with them, and three of their mostly plastic girlfriends. Now, I know all people from New Jersey are not stereotypes... but these ones were.The men ranged in age from about 30 to about 65, with all the 30 year old girls hanging off the arms of the older ones.

The group kept to themselves, they were all having a good time together and didn't really pay too much attention to me. But at our second stop I suddenly heard a whistle, looking up I saw what amounted to Sammy the freakin' Bull down at the other end of the table staring directly at me.

As soon as I made eye contact with him, he pointed at me, then curled his hand around and beckoned with one finger. After summoning me, he looked back to his compatriots and continued his conversation.

Knowing that this 6'8", three hundred (holy shit) pound behemoth could crush me like a beer can, I didn't even hesitate long enough to hesitate about walking over there to see what he needed. When I arrived I smiled, trying not to notice the fact that even his arm HAIRS had muscles, and asked him what he needed.

"Yeah," he said, turning to look at me. "This guy has a question."

He pointed to one of his friends. Now, if you have seen The Sopranos, imagine Paulie Wallnuts. This guy had a skin tight grey shirt, short gold chain and grey hair slicked back over his head. He was clearly the oldest one of the group and had the pleasure of having Mrs. I-don't-need-a-life-vest-I-have-two-of-my-own hanging for a girlfriend. I looked over at him and he stared at me for a moment before stating, loud enough so everyone could hear:

"Yeah… I thought this was supposed to be a Titty Tour."

I was so taken aback I could have won first prize in the International Deer in Headlights competition (was that an inadvertent boob pun? Or are those called "Highbeams"?) After a moment I realized that they were all looking at me, waiting for my response.

"Um…"

"Cuz my buddy over here told me this was a Titty Tour," he grunted.

"Yeah! Where's the Tits?" one of the other friends yelled from down the table.

I blame New Jersey for these...

I had no idea what to do. Here I was, in a bar in Philadelphia, surround by a large group of people who were expecting Tits that I was, frankly, COMPLETELY UNABLE to deliver! I started to panic. What would these people do when they found out there were no TaTas in store for them. Would they riot? If I had been expecting breasts and found out that I was mislead… I may want to riot, not that I could do much damage, but these people could destroy half the city if they wanted to. It would be Godzilla 30: Revenge of the New Jersey Boob Enthusiasts (also know as boobthusiasts)… I had to act fast.

"Um," I stuttered. "I don't know where you heard that. This is a pub cra-"

"So it isn't a Titty Tour?" The big guy interrupted me.

Silence. Horrible... terrified... silence.

Then it hit me. A last ditch idea that could avert disaster. With one final gasp at wit, I decided to attempt to save the city of Philadelphia from rampant destruction:

"Well… we don't provide the Tits. But you're more than welcome to find your own."

Crickets Chirped.

Then, without any warning, the giant standing next to me lunged forward and… put his arm around me… LAUGHING. 

"Lookit this guy!" he laughed. Then the other guy laughed. The girlfriend laughed. EVERYONE laughed. I even laughed a little as my blood returned to various extremities.

Looking back, I learned something that day: never judge a book by its cover. Unless it's a book about people who look like mobsters from New Jersey… then just pray to God you can either provide them with Tits or provide a funny reason why there are no Tits. Take that lesson with you kids, it will serve you well.

Tune in next time for a blog entry from my new hometown and under a different name. I hope witness protection puts me somewhere cool…

At least I won't be in New Jersey.