It was the newest restaurant in town. A place for people to go to unwind, to relax, and to socialize.

It was a place for older folks to reminisce; and for young-professionals to talk business. A place for families to come together. A place for everyone to feel normal.

This restaurant—cafe, bar, whatever—was a place for strangers to meet. The perfect place for a blind date; or for blind people to date, having already known each other, beforehand.

It was a place for people to declare war on love: to abolish the idea of a Hallmark lifestyle.

It was a place for people to call other people “fucking retards”, and a place for people to talk about how they hate when people use the word “retard.”

Now, this restaurant—tapas bar—had it all; but it didn’t have posers. Everyone that went there was authentically human. They were all shapes and sizes; even rectangle, and midget, respectively.

It was a restaurant with class. Sure, it had topless servers and a mechanical bull. It had a rat infestation and the bartenders wore hats made from newspapers. It had a buffet. But, this restaurant—diner, deli, what have you—had customers that loved being there. Yeah, this place may have had magic shows, and frozen wings, and cobwebs, and balloon animals, and pole dancers, and employees that were always texting. It had carpeted floors, and weak cocktails, and loose chair legs, and warm beer.

Yes, this restaurant may have had its problems, but it would live on. It would live on, because it didn’t allow gays.

“Good for them,” said more than one person: a quorum, if you will.

“Good for them.”