So I learned a couple of things about which I wasn't previously privy. First, apparently it is kosher for polygamists to drink alcohol. For whatever reason, it is just difficult to picture those statuesque, majestic women with their intricate braids and massive bang waves--lord only knows what those monstrosities are really called in the hair world--square shoes and 19th century era dresses, stumbling about, drunk and belligerent. They just don't fit the mold.
Second, when polygamists drink, they don't mess around. If I had to guess what a polygamist might order in the realm of alcohol, I would picture a cheap, fruity wine. Or perhaps a full bodied red, for the old crusty womanizers. Well, maybe even brandy for those guys. So when they ordered 3 long island ice teas, it sort of caught me off guard. Frat dudes order long islands. Drunks order long islands. Nobody drinks a long island because they like the way it tastes. The express purpose of said beverage, is to get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible. And the long island is a veritable shit storm of alcohol; cheap tequila, gin, rum, vodka, and triple sec. Add a couple ounces of sour mix and a splash of coke, and cue gag reflex.
Thirdly, apparently polygamist women who delve into the seedier realm of alcoholic beverages also have no qualms about throwing down a few while BURSTING WITH PREGNANCY.
There is this polygamous family that dines at Carrabbas periodically. There is typically 1-2 men, and 3-4 women. And unless there is like, a new emerging club where people dress exactly like stereotypical polygamists and then go out to eat at semi-fancy Italian restaurants, these people are 100% big love. Tonight, we were blessed with their presence, exquisite braids practically seething sex, driving any man within the immediate vicinity insane with desire. Or something.
I was a little shocked when their server asked me for 3 long islands. "For the pligs huh? Get outta town." I was thoroughly stunned upon seeing one of the long island partakers stand up, and waddle her way to the bathroom, fetus practically clawing its way out of her swollen womb. A solid 6 months, if she was a day. "Huh," I thought. "Perhaps the ensuing fetal alcohol syndrome will cause the child to be more malleable to their way of life. And a fetal alcohol baby's hair is probably inherently easier to braid. Duh."
Poor little fetus, basting in alcohol laced amniotic fluid, and ultimately baking in a polygamist oven.
No bright side there.