Pity Laugh

This weekend I had the pleasure of meeting my sister's longish-distance Boy-Who-is-a-Friend.
We started off well enough. He paid attention to my father's car show and complimented my mom's salad from a bag. I think he actually said, "wow," which is more than any of us ever has.
If the night had stopped there, he may have had a chance. Alas.
Matt and I took Carly and BWIAF to Figlio, our regular destination for fancy drinks and staying up late. He revealed his age: 18. His penchant for alcohol: that's real nice, in front of her older sister.... But he signed his own marching orders when he told us about shitbagging with his buddies. Apparently, there is a name for the egregious act of putting dog poo in bags and lighting them on fire. Who knew? She and I exchanged a look and I had to bite my lip to keep from asking Matt to remove the kid from the table. The moral to this story: good impressions rarely involve the word "shitbag."