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.”
Category: Fiction
Hot Dog Fishing
Every bear has a day of monopoly as it hunts salmon, thinking: “well, I don’t think I could do anything wrong during this fishing trip. Hey Larry, check out this one-hander!”
The salmon in the stream know they’re approaching a creature who’s in the zone, and most of them still try to escape its clutches, not figuring the percentage chance that they have of getting away is actually quite high (especially since this particular bear fills up on five salmon, where most other adults like six or even seven).
Larry watches this streaky bear attempt a one-handed catch of a leaping salmon, and he knows such things rarely happen unless the fisher were to impale said fish on its claws, and most salmon are substantial enough to simply bounce off and swim away, or at the very worst lose a few scales and become a laughingstock.
The salmon smacks our hero square in the pad of his paw, only to see another paw close in around its head, securing the catch.
“Hey Doorman, you said one-hander, not two-hander!”
“Dude, I don’t have thumbs, and I deadened the fish on my paw before getting the second one in there. You’re just jealous of my skills.”
Larry is a bit jealous of Doorman, but his male instinct won’t let him admit it.
WHARVED 