In our college days, my hubby, my friends, and I all loved to eat at a little 50's Diner-themed restaurant called Johnny Rockets. Johnny Rockets has dancing waiters, killer chocolate malts, ketchup served in a smiley-face formation, and tiny jukeboxes on every table where a nickel buys you the chance to hear Wipeout or Blue Suede Shoes.
Pretty entertaining, right? Apparently, not entertaining enough for my hubby and two of his friends. On one memorable visit, they decided to shake things up a bit. They wrote down a bunch of mental/physical conditions, tossed them in a hat, and whichever one they drew, they had to be that evening. (Yes, yes, not very political correct, I know.)
My hubby had a debilitating stutter.
Gavin had Touretts Syndrome.
Damon had a severe case of paranoia.
The ordering process sounded something like this:
WAITRESS: Hi there, welcome to Johnny Rockets!
HUBBY: Thhhhhhhhhaa - thhhhhhhhhhhaaa
DAMON: What do you mean welcome? Who's been waiting for us?
GAVIN: Not welcome! Not welcome!
WAITRESS: Um, okay, what can I get for you?
HUBBY: I, I, I, I, I, I, I wwwwwant a shhhhhhhhh- shhhhhhhhh
WAITRESS: A shake?
DAMON: Why do you want him to have a shake? Have you poisoned the shakes?
GAVIN: #$%@ Shakes! #$%@ Shakes!
HUBBY: Ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch
WAITRESS: Chocolate shake?
DAMON: You can't tell the man what to order. He'll order what he wants, not what the leftist government conspiracy would like to feed him.
GAVIN: #@$%! #@$%!
WAITRESS: Geez. Okay, chocolate shake. Do you know what you want to eat?
HUBBY: Nu,nu,nu,nu, numb-b-b-b-b-
WAITRESS: A number 6?
DAMON: Wait! Whoa, now. Let's all just back up a second. You can't just tell the man he's having a number 6.
WAITRESS: That's the only number on the menu.
DAMON: And why is that? Why are we only offered one number?
WAITRESS: Because everything else has a name?
DAMON: Or is it because secretly they want to lead us to pick the number six, revere the number six, worship the number six which is of the Devil?!!
GAVIN: #$%@ Devil! #$%@ Devil!
WAITRESS: I am not being paid enough for this. Listen (turns to hubby), do you want cheese on that?
DAMON: The man is NOT taking any of your suggestions here. He'll have only what HE orders. No more, no less. You can just tell your BOSS that we won't play his game.
GAVIN: #$%@ Boss! #$%@ Boss!
HUBBY: Ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch
WAITRESS: Cheese, I got it.
DAMON: Where are the cameras you use to secretly record our every move?
WAITRESS: (rolls eyes) In the jukebox. Whaddya want?
DAMON: (shrieks) The jukebox! I knew it! You're using our love of rock and roll as the tool to bring about our downfall. I'll have a Coke.
GAVIN: #$%@ Coke! #$%@ Coke!
WAITRESS: Right. Two Cokes.
And on it went. No doubt they ate quite a bit of spit in their food that evening.