The Saga of the Singing Busboy

I will now relate to you, dear reader, the epic tale of what transpired last night.

It was Monday night, to those of you who are in another time zone or calenderly impaired, and so I had choir practice. The practice went by with few out of the way happenings, and afterwards my family and I journeyed to Cici's Pizza to consume various vitals. During this time my mother and father discussed the serious issue of Charlie Sheen's resemblance of his father, sparked by the appearance of said star on the television set in the corner of the ceiling. My other family members were unusually silent, most likely on account of the presence of another device in the other corner of the eating establishment. This other brain-remover--ahem, television set was currently playing some vapid program on Cartoon Network, a.k.a. The Channel of Death.
While these events occurred around me, I sat peacefully consuming my salad and pizza, and describing to my parents the horrors of a certain long-haired male in my choir with whom I am not on speaking terms (At the moment. Usually I am.). When we arrived at this food emporium there was a sports team of young men, but they departed after mentioning many times exactly how many plates of food they had consumed, and trying to calculate how many plates of food the entire party had masticated.
In the relative quiet of their absence it became apparent that the busboy who had the massive task of cleaning up after the sports team (Probably football players, if I'm any judge. Those scary football players...) was actually singing along with the music playing in the restaurant. This cleaner of floors and wiper of tables was quite attractive, and I found it cute that he was singing, since that's something I wish I had the guts to do at work. (Actually, the other day one of the women I work with caught me lipsyncing in Greenhouse Number Three and had a nice little laugh at my expense.) First he performed his own rendition of Landslide, then finished off with This is How a Heart Breaks. The most interesting thing about his solos is that they weren't the quiet, muttered half humming people usually chose to use in public. Even when he was almost on the other side of the room I could perceive his dulcet tones.
Shortly after the singing busboy was dispatched to tidy up the dining area, my family decided that it was an opportune time to leave, because the stupefying cartoon, called by the announcer "Camp Lazlo" and starring a pink Elephant with a retainer, a monkey-type creature and some other animal that had been so heavily anthropomorphically changed that this writer could not recognize it as anything the Good Lord had created, was over. I walked with leisure toward the door marked "exit." My family, heathens that they are, used the other door, marked "entrance." You would think that I would be rewarded for my contentiousness, but alas, that is not the case. My family, when I tried to exit, blocked the door so I could not leave. I was going to compromise my leaving places of eatery beliefs and use the other door, but when I tried that one, my family was blocking it as well. I stood and stared at their laughing faces in puzzlement. Why would they do this to me, their eldest daughter? When I turned to re-enter Cici's pizza from the glassy hallway, I found the Singing Busboy was, in fact, laughing at me. I gave him a sheepish grin, and considered saying something funny and intelligent, (Do you think I could live here for a while? I seem to be having a bit of a difficulty in leaving.) but changed my mind. I went to another door and, my ultimate humiliation being accomplished, my family let me escape.
The best bit was when I locked them out of the car for a while, but the Singing busboy wasn't paying attention then, so it didn't make me look any smarter to him.