Raffle Kharma

My parents and I were invited to attend a party at the local pub they frequent. It's the same place that if my parents aren't home, and aren't out of town--they're probably at this place.

Anyhow.

It turns out it was a big celebratory bash, with lots of food, drinks, and prizes. Oh, and don't forget about the sterility-causing karaoke. You can only complain after you've tried it, so I made sure to sing one of the first few songs with a friend of my parents, "Low Places." You can imagine how badly I wanted to heckle the other patrons if, me, of all people... was singing country.

So that went well.

Now, when we showed up, the manager of the place requested that we all write questions on slips of paper in regards to the place--as it was the 11th anniversary of the establishment. We had ZERO idea how these questions would be used. It was stated that we didn't even have to know the answer.

I looked at my dad and said, "What's the maximum occupancy of this place?", knowing that there were no signs posted. His eyes got big, indicating that I'd made a good one, but I wouldn't dare write it down. He did.

Turns out, the questions were posed to patrons in exchange for lavish gifts--everything from expensive bottles of liquor, to tickets to Cher, expensive gift certificates, and whatnot. The question did not come up.

Towards the end of the gala, there were still three lavish gifts to hand out, and the patrons were wanting it over. They'd endured karaoke (imagine Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody being butchered), and lots of these questions. People were voting for it to be over.

Cindy, one of the bartenders, wouldn't have this. She wanted one more question in exchange for a prize.

Who's name gets picked? -c'est moi-.

What question was it? Yes. I pulled the question from a gift bag, and immediately recognized my dad's handwriting, and with the entire crowd of one hundred watching, I let my dad read the question. We played dumb. I handed the question to the manager who read it aloud. She immediately raised her eyebrows and said, "whoever wrote this was very sour." She said that she knew the answer, but nobody else in the place did. She asked the crowd if I could get a new question, and they all agreed, because the 'jerk that wrote it' was just wrong. Thankfully, I had only thought of the question, I didn't write it down!

I pulled another question out, and fortunately whoever had written the question had also written the answer on the card--because I didn't know the address of the place. I smiled and handed her the question, and she smiled slyly, and asked. Of course, I answered correctly.

"What are the odds of picking the question that you had asked?" wondered my parents aloud.

Umm, perhaps I'm supposed to know the answer to that--but I'm chocking it all up to kharma.

Now, just how am I supposed to spend $250 on dinner at Del Frisco's?