"When I tell people I’m engaged, they ask, ‘How old are you?’ [with, perhaps, skeptical dispositions and raised eyebrows]. It’s really rude," the fiance told his friends, while standing on a subway platform, dressed in a long red Mennonite skirt, a Hawaiian shirt, and a turtle hat on his head.



"When I tell people I’m engaged," a friend added, "they supply me with numbers for abortion clinics."

Riding down the Yonge Line on a Saturday night, dressed as he was, and surrounded by young males, a woman started to ask questions.

"So what’s your deal?" she served.

"He’s engaged to be married," a friend volleyed.

To say she was surprised would be correct. To say she was astounded would be going too far.

"How old are you?"—with the look of dismay.

"It’s my strategy for picking up women," the fiance returned.

"Shit," she countered. "You better pick up a box of condoms. Like, a jumbo carton."

Some laughter.

"It was his fiancee’s idea," volleyed a friend. "For using a swear word, mention of her or her name, or a big word, he has to don a new article of clothing."

"Your fiancee’s a bitch," she flung. "No offense or anything."

A little more verbal tennis with the scold, before the fiance, citing biased refereeing, forfeited and exited the train.

Additional Info

  • Subtitle:
comments powered by Disqus