Helly Misbehaves In Public

I know - what are the odds?!? During the shopping expedition resulting from re-re-rearranged weekend plans (recounted below) Alan and I took a break for lunch at Whistle Post, a great little neighborhood tavern that we like. It was mere coincidence that they were showing the UGA/Colorado game on their 15-foot television.

We sat in our favorite spot, 4th booth back in the row of booths along the front wall of the restaurant, which are private with very high backs (this becomes relevant later). Alan ordered a burger with bacon & bleu cheese while I opted for hummus and pita chips, and a side of fried artichoke hearts. The artichoke hearts were YUMMY, very light batter with a chipotle ranch dipping sauce. It was a nice, relaxing lunch and I kept tabs on the game. More importantly, I got to see Ralphie, the University of Colorado's buffalo. I think it's cool they brought their buffalo with them.

After our plates had been cleared, we were waiting on the check. A lone fry of Alan's had jumped overboard and was lying on the table. This fry was about one-and-one-quarter inches long, with a gentle curve like a banana - or, shall I say, like a football? Inspired by the Bulldog-Buffalo contest, we started playing football on the table with the fry; remember how in school, you (or little boys in your class if you were too good to misbehave, like Nancy) played football with a piece of paper multi-folded into a triangle? That, but with a french fry.

It was time for Alan to kick a field goal so I, in accordance with kid rules handed down since time immemorial, made a thumb-and-forefinger goalpost for him. What a pathetic kick! He didn't even get the fry airborne! It scuttled across the table and hit my forearm! It would have been sad, if it hadn't been so funny. And, in case you forget, he's the GUY! He should be better at this than me. But anyway, even though it wasn't my turn to do so, I grabbed the fry and teed up, to show Alan my field-goal-kicking prowess, all the while making scathing remarks about his woefully pathetic attempt. I was talking some serious smack.

Alan dutifully made me a goalpost and I thumped my fry, being sure to catch it on the underside so it would go airborne and fly through the goalposts rather than remaining on the table. Boy, did it go airborne. It went airborne and then some. If you remember that Nicholas Setta kick against Stanford when it went up into the crowd about 60 rows up, it was like that. If not, let me explain. My kick was no good because it went wide left, but more than that, I unintentionally sent it very, very high. It sailed up over Alan's goalposts, it sailed up, up over his shoulder, it defied the laws of physics and continued sailing another foot and a half, right over the high back of our booth, finally descending upon the older couple eating lunch in the booth behind us. Whoopsie!

When I realized that I'd sent a renegade french fry flying into other diners, I knew I should apologize but instead I dissolved into an uncontrollable, violent fit of giggles. It was one of those things where I knew it wasn't THAT funny, but I couldn't stop laughing. The more I pictured this sedate, dignified couple eating lunch when suddenly a cold french fry rains down from nowhere, the more I laughed. I got Alan started, too, and our booth was practically shaking from our silent, organ-jiggling laughter. Whenever I got myself under semi-control, I'd imagine something like the lady peeking around the booth and asking Alan to control his child - and seeing me sitting there. Or the man being in the middle of some long, boring story about golf when suddenly, a fry lands in his chicken wings. Every time I'd picture something like this, I was off again into a laughing seizure, and the more I laughed, the more Alan felt compelled to follow.

When we left the restaurant, I knew that I should apologize to those people but I had decided not to, because I knew as soon as I opened my mouth, I'd just start to laugh again and anything I tried to say would be unintelligible. Hell, I'd probably wind up spitting on them, trying to speak but laughing at the same time. So I concentrated on talking to my brother on my cell phone. We stood, walked past - and this older couple was sitting side by side in their booth (instead of across from one another) in the side facing us. So they were looking right at us when the fry sailed up over our booth onto their table. I couldn't look at them.

Out in the parking lot, my brother said, "What? What? Your cell phone is messing up." Unable to articulate that there was nothing wrong with my cell phone, and what he was hearing were the puffs and snorts of smothered laughter, I choked, "I'll tell you later!" and hung up.

So next time you're out to dinner, particularly if you're in a nice place where you wouldn't expect that sort of thing, and T-O-I-O-I-I-NG! a french fry sails from out of nowhere and lands on your table, look around for me. Say 'hi'. I'll be glad to see you. And I'll tell you so, too, as soon as I stop laughing.