Andre and Farley

He grabbed the salt shaker and gingerly sprinkled several granules upon the sweet potato fry he clutched in his other hand. He preferred not to drown his entire serving in higher blood pressure, though he failed to consider the possibility that portioning the seasoning out to individual fries would eventually surpass an initial liberal dumping before he took his first bite. About halfway through, however, he noticed that the spill-off from his deliberate salting was enough to flavor the remainder of the fries, which he found to be quite convenient, because it afforded him to put down the shaker and proceed to shovel the fried goodness into his mouth at a highly accelerated rate.
Upon completion of his snack, he looked up from the grease-stained paper basket and immediately chastised my gastronomic efforts. “Wow, you’re still only halfway through that sandwich? How is that possible?”
He hiccuped and gulped about six ounces of Dr. Pepper.
“We’ve been eating for three minutes, Andre. Are you kidding me? Apart from that, I’ve actually been enraptured by your shameless display of gluttony. I saw your whole process, and I have to admit I found it rather amusing.”
“No, you’re just a girly man. What’s in that sandwich, anyway? Are you still a damn dirty vegetarian?”
“Eh, it was too difficult to deprive myself of the animals I know and love, even though I know exactly how they get from those sweat farms to my plate. That just shows you how much of a man I really am.
Oh, and this is a turkey club. I mostly just ordered it to see if they’d stick those plastic-frilled toothpicks in the individual quarters of sandwich to keep them from falling apart, and I’m not disappointed. They even varied the colors of the plastic! Two orange and two green! I believe a large tip is in order.”
“Remind me why we hang out so much.”

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