Nothing says love like a rose stolen from the bathroom

It was a great Valentine’s Day at the bar. Only one woman was on the brink of tears. Only one guy made his date pay and only one woman sat at the bar alone for five hours on her computer. I’m not exaggerating. I know I exaggerate, but this time I’m not. Ask the other bartender. She came in at 7pm and left a little after midnight. I imagine she looked at the time,

“12:15? Phew, Valentine’s Day is over. I can go home.”

The night finished strong. A guest bought the other bartender and me an expensive whiskey and tipped us on it. He told me,

“I asked my 24-year-old son what’s the appropriate age range I should be dating. He told me I’d be an idiot if I dated my same age and he’d be furious if I dated someone younger than him.”


“It turns out the woman I was dating was younger than him.”


“I didn’t know! I knew she looked young, but I didn’t know how young.”

Does that defense hold up in court?

And last but not least I even got a rose. It may have come from the bouquet in the ladies room, but a rose is a rose and it looks better in my room than it did at work next to the toilet.

Ok! You’re right! I may have taken three.

This seems to be beyond explanation. 

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