April 7, 2007

Boguns Not Allowed

My friend Lucy never says die. She also never says cook. She was determined to find an open restaurant in the vast desolate wasteland that was the Adelaide Easter weekend. I don’t know if beer is their religion or if they’re simply rebels, but the Belgians had stepped up. The Belgian Beer Bar was open for business. Lucy and I were among the few customers seated at the restaurants spacious lanai. As we sipped delicious white beer and forced down less than good Croque Monsieur (our own damn faults – we forgot we weren’t in France), we noticed a sign etched by the restaurants front door.

Dress Code Strictly Enforced
Absolutely No

Thongs
Ripped Jeans
Singlets
Visible Tattoos
Flannelettes

I got most of it, but flannelettes threw me. We called the waiter over. “Excuse me” I asked, “ We can’t help but notice your sign. Can you tell us what a flannelette is?”

The waiter looked stumped. “Well,” he started, “I don’t know quite how to explain it. It’s a shirt, made of cotton…you know, the kind a bogun wears.”

“Uh.” I replied. “Can you tell me what a bogun is?”

“Uh,” he stammered, and called another waiter over to assist. “A bogun is a bloke who just sits around, on the couch…”

“They’re not very smart…” added waiter number two.

“They just cause trouble,” continue number one.

“Does a bogun have a job?” I asked.

“Occasionally.” Offered number two.

“Does it involve an axe?” I furthered.

“Usually.’ Said number two.

“Lumberjack!” shouted number one, clearly glad to have thought of a descriptive word in American English. “A bogun is like a lumberjack!”

“I wonder,’ mentioned Lucy, off on a different train of thought, “if those rules are just so you can keep the riff raff out.”

“What do you mean?” asked number one.

“Well,’ continued Lucy, I wonder if you allow people who are breaking the dress code in, as long as they aren’t boguns.”

“What do you mean?” asked number two, who was not listening the first time.

“Let’s put it this way,” I said, “A young, beautiful woman walks into the bar. She’s wearing jeans with a rip in the knee, and a flannelette patch on the back pocket. She’s in thong sandals, and a tight tank top.” “And she’s got a tattoo of a slightly parted pair of lips, “I went on, bringing my index finger to my breast,” right here. Do you let her in?”

“Absolutely!” said number one.
“Oh she’s in!” number two breathlessly added.

Well, that explains what Lucy and I were doing there.