Don’t you just hate going through a salad bar line? I mean it wouldn’t matter if the Waldorf Astoria had one or you were going through the one at Joe’s Diner. There is always some schmuck behind you absolutely convinced that you are going to take that one cherry tomato out of a thousand that he has his eye on. He’s pumped-up and close enough you can smell the testosterone. His tray keeps bumping yours. The guy’s toe keeps catching your heel and the odor of consumed garlic toast certainly isn’t coming from you. And if he’s really scared of what you might get before he does, you see the darting arm under the sneeze guard like he’s in some sort of salad bar passing lane. So, you shoot him a look and he says “sorry” but he really isn’t. He’s looking straight through you to the pickled beets up ahead.
It’s my contention that people are generally hogs. If you want to know a person’s true personality — what he’s really like — watch him in action at the salad bar. My guy here is on at least his second trip. He’s got salad dressing on his shirt as well as on the shoe that keeps kicking me. There’s enough food on his plate that he may need a wheeled cart and he hasn’t even made it to the pudding station yet. And right behind him another 400-pounder — presumably the little woman — has just clicked trays telling him to get a move on because she’s starving.
No comments:
Post a Comment