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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/
May 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
April/ May 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Fighting
Derby
By Dan Bain, North Carolina
I’ve been sensitive lately about gender
stereotypes. Why is “soccer mom” the preferred term? Why is it assumed
that moms should have that loathsome duty? Of course, I might never have
thought about it if I hadn’t become a “derby dad” this year.
Our six-year-old Cub Scout – let’s call him “Doodlebug” – brought home
his first Pinewood Derby kit last December. But when he emptied the box,
I thought we’d been had – there was no car!
Instead, there was a seven-inch block of pinewood, four nails, and four
wheels. When I realized the implication, I looked at my wife and said,
“Good luck with that.” But she wasn’t buying.
It’s just assumed the dad is the right man for this job. But I’m not a
handyman. I replaced our kitchen sink last fall, fixtures to pipes, and
am still proud of that – but I’ve tapped my handiness quota for life.
I didn’t even have the tools to make a pinewood car. We tried a coping
saw; apparently, we couldn’t cope. Having bent its blade beyond
recognition, I did what any dad would do – bought a power tool. Sort of.
It’s a handheld Dremel rotary tool.
Some handymen prefer to work with a stationary Dremel, so I also bought
the customized Dremel vice. I clamped it to our kitchen table, locked
the Dremel in place, and took the pine block to it – whereupon it took
the pine block from me. Turning at an approximate speed of 35,000 rpm,
the blade catapulted the block across the room, where it scratched my
new sink.
Reversing the handyman’s preferred setup, I clamped the block in the
vise and held the tool. This worked better, although the Dremel came
close to going airborne a few times.
Doodlebug took some turns with the Dremel and we bonded over the shared
use of a power tool. Too bad he didn’t believe me when I tried to tell
him the vacuum cleaner is another power tool – I got stuck cleaning the
inch of pine dust from our kitchen floor.
After reducing the block to arguably a car shape, Doodlebug picked a
design scheme – black with astronomy stickers. Painting and finishing
progressed without incident (involving neither power tools nor me) and
“The Comet” was born. At only slightly more than our out-of-pocket costs
from when Doodlebug was born.
The night of the race, I realized how far the Derby has evolved since I
was a Cub. Kids were transporting their cars in metal cases designed to
immobilize and protect the contents; I looked at Doodlebug’s brown paper
bag and mumbled an apology as we walked in, only to realize car designs
have also changed.
My generation chose from making a red car, a yellow car, or a black car.
The really creative kids daringly opted for a blue car.
Today’s Cubs shape their cars like anything but cars; we saw animals,
pencils, coffins, guitars, hot dogs, skateboards, androids, and golf
courses (complete with players, trees, sand traps and beer carts). Ours
looked like … a black car.
Two designs really stood out, the first being a tub of popcorn. That’s
an inside joke among Cub Scouts; it’s akin to a Girl Scout building a
car that looks like Thin Mints.
I’ve come to refer to the other notable car as the “Second Amendment
Special.” It looked like a military humvee, but mounted on its roof was
an actual bullet – .308 diameter, 150-grain, flat-base Sierra. Standard
sniper round, so I’m told. But it was loaded into an unfired brass, with
nothing to set the charge off; therefore, the owner assured me, it would
neither harm spectators nor give the humvee an unfair speed advantage.
The final difference from 30 years ago is in the races themselves. The
winners used to be deemed by human judgment, often resulting in disputed
calls and occasional fistfights. That actually happened in my pack; I
still can’t believe one kid’s dad punched the Cubmaster.
Today’s races are monitored by state-of-the-art technology; sensors in
the finish lines determine the winner of each heat. They convey this
information to a computer that displays finish times – no disputes, no
bruises.
The Comet clocked in at 2.35 seconds from start to finish, or 209.2 mph
– tops in his den. According to the by-laws, the winners’ dads have to
serve on next year’s race committee – and build the track.
My wife is still chuckling about that, but she won’t be laughing much
longer. Doodlebug just signed up for soccer….
http://groups.google.com/group/bainwaves
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 Marry
Merrily
By
Burton Cole, Ohio
Why are we even discussing gay marriages? It's obvious
that a gay marriage can’t be right. I've been an accomplice in friends'
marriages and I was cast in a starring role in my own nuptials, and know
this for sure: Surviving a wedding is not a gay time at all.
You can strive for merely moderate aggravation tracking down halls and
caterers, agreeing on dresses and colors, and trying to keep Aunt Bertha
out of the way. But gay – forget it.
Who needs a constitutional amendment to prevent gay marriages? Just
trying to get a couple to agree on the wedding invitations and who will
receive them pretty much ensures that.
A wise person once said there are two great tests a couple must endure
to calculate the strength of their marriage. The second is if they can
wallpaper together without the neighbors finding it necessary to call
police.
The first is planning the marriage itself.
Everything else is gravy – unless it really is gravy and the one of you
who didn't make it contorts like a lemon tester after tasting it.
Even then, silences and wallpapering can be overcome. Grandma claims my
mom and dad weren't speaking just before their wedding. They went
through with it anyway, then wallpapered together. Last year they
celebrated their 50th anniversary and seem more in love than ever.
But never once have I heard Dad say his wedding remotely resembled gay.
It was so bad that he tried to talk me into eloping.
I learned that Dad is a wise man.
Without spending up to a year fretting over every pesky detail while
fending off all the people trying to run your wedding for you, what's
there to get frustrated about? Unplanned marriage probably would be gay.
But I'm only speculating.
My own wedding wasn't as tortuous as it could be because we rammed it
through in two months. It was an extremely stressful two months I'd
never care to repeat. Like most marriages, the gaiety – which eventually
wore off – didn't start until the wedding was a distant nightmare.
For example, I nearly excluded my own mother. We planned a lovely
ceremony in an outdoor pavilion among hundreds of trees. I forgot about
Mom's allergies. She thought we didn’t want her.
When it came to a picnic-style reception in an alcohol-free park, some
of the guests threatened revolt. And when I hiked off to get the car and
was waylaid by well-wishers, the maid of honor snapped at me that my
betrothed was seething.
When I rushed back through the woods, I found that now that the wedding
was over, the rituals complete and the guests gone away, instead of
seething, she actually was inhaling the soothing respite and looking the
most relaxed I’d seen her in two months.
“It’s lovely now, isn’t it?” she said.
Gay marriages, indeed.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Summer
Games Need To Shop A Bargain Event
By Burton Cole, Ohio
I’ve tried to understand. Really, I have.
But honestly, shopping is NOT a competitive sport. If it was, I’m
certain it would be an event in the Olympic Games this summer in
Beijing.
Every so often I get stuck with a shopping enthusiast determined to hook
me on the thrill of the hunt. I could just choke with excitement.
I once tried to throw myself off the roof in an attempt to break one or
both legs, thinking it might save me the torture. Since I am afraid of
heights, I hopped off the back porch instead.
I was forced to hop through the mall on a twisted ankle by one of those
infernal shopping hobbyists who insisted it would cheer me up.
It didn’t.
Recently, I have been afflicted by a shopping aficionado named Terry,
who would be a medal contender in the bargain event, if the 2008 games
had one.
A few days ago, I thought she was driving me home when we suddenly
whipped into the lot of one of those sprawling secondhand stores, the
commercial version of hand-me-downs from older siblings.
“Why should I pay full price when someone else already has?” she
chirped.
Sweat beaded on my forehead.
I waded behind Terry through jammed racks of clothing, trying to keep
from breaking out with heebie-jeebies.
“Look!” she yelped, plucking an apparently never-worn jacket from the
clumped masses.
She thrust the label at me. It was Liz Clairborne or Donna Karan or some
name like that.
Kobe Bryant slashing through the lane I would have got. But Lane Bryant
slashed through the price tag – it’s not the same tingle.
Unfortunately, I needed jeans. Terry hustled me off to another room
where racks of pants were nestled next to shelves of mugs, soup bowls,
tins and broken hair dryers.
“There are some fantastic deals in here,” she said, diving in.
This event is not for the faint of heart. The jeans were sorted by color
instead of size.
I closed my eyes and snatched a hanger. Too short. Another grab. Right
leg length, but a waist size I haven’t seen in 20 years. I feinted to
the right, spun and cut to the left. I had a pair of ... Gloria whats?
“Hey,” I yelled. “Who mixed the women’s pants in here?”
“Oh, they put them all together. Difficulty points,” Terry said. “But if
you stick with it, you can get a $100 pair of Rocawears for three bucks.
You’ll love it!”
At least I think that’s what she said. I was hyperventilating and ran
for the door. Christmas is only half a year away. Maybe Santa will bring
me jeans. I can wait.
Can you imagine a shopping tournament at the Summer Games?
Competitors would line up with shopping carts. One wheel must wobble.
Track has 440, 880 and 1600 meter races. Shoppers would be assigned
events of outfitting families of one, four and six members.
They would have be given a $17.50 budget and 13 minutes before soccer
practice to get it done.
Bonus points would be awarded to competitors who find clothes with the
original price tags attached.
Strategy would include being quick enough with one’s elbows to
discourage other bargain shoppers mining the racks for the same gems.
I would start figuring out the grocery, furniture and -- horror of
horrors -- shoe shopping events, but I’m busy looking for another roof
to climb. Well, a back porch, anyway. Because maybe shopping IS a
competitive sport.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Woman
Endures Bad Hair Day For The Sake Of Airport Security
By Vicky DeCoster, Nebraska
The last time I flew in an airplane, Monica Lewinsky and Linda Tripp
were good friends. Times have changed. Airline regulations are designed
to keep us safe. The guy who manufactures three-ounce bottles and
quart-sized clear plastic bags recently purchased his own island.
Meanwhile, the rest of us are worrying about how our hair will look the
next day since we can squeeze only two hair products in the clear,
quart-sized carry on bag.
In preparation for a recent trip, as I was trying I tried to cram all my
tiny bottles in that bag, I asked my husband, “Do you think anyone would
mind if I didn’t brush my teeth for two days?”
“Good grief honey,” he answered. “Take one hair product out of the bag!”
“Without my shampoo, conditioner, gel, mousse, and hairspray, I will
look like Phyllis Diller!” I exclaimed.
He sighed. “You have to take toothpaste. I don’t want to hear another
word about it.”
The next morning, he dropped me off at the airport curb clutching my
17-inch carry-on bag in one hand and my quart-sized, clear bag full of
three-ounce bottles in the other.
There was no time for a kiss. “See you tomorrow night, Phyllis!” my
husband shouted as he drove off.
I made my way toward the screening area line and removed my belt while
walking down the hallway. I reached the agent at the entrance, clutching
my pants to hold them up. “Boarding pass and valid driver’s license,”
she ordered sternly. I let go of my pants while bending over slightly,
using my elbow to hold them up while presenting my documents. She
scrutinized and returned them. “Take off your shoes and coat and put
your three-ounce items in a bin.”
As I bent over to remove my shoes, my pants slid down further and I’m
pretty sure the tourist behind me who was on his way to see the Liberty
Bell in Philadelphia viewed a crack he didn’t expect to see that early
in his vacation. I placed my shoes, purse, three-ounce bottles, and
carry-on bag in the bins on the belt. I pulled up my pants, much to the
relief of the people in line behind me, and walked into the tiny booth.
I positioned my feet on the footprints on the floor and waited.
Suddenly, short bursts of air shot at me forcefully from every
direction. I yelled, “Is this is a glaucoma test, because I just had one
of these in July!” I didn’t hear a reply, so I walked out of the little
booth.
The security agent came around the corner shaking his head. “Just like a
little kid,” he said. “Get back in there and wait until I tell you to
come out.”
“Do I have glaucoma?” I asked weakly when he motioned for me to come
out. “I have blurred vision lately and reddening around my eyes,
especially when I drink wine before dinner.”
He didn’t respond as he led me back to the booth. As I endured the
blasts of air again, I realized I needed to walk through yet another
screening area before I was cleared. I was pretty sure my three-ounce
bottles would be in Chicago by the time I got through security.
Eventually, I boarded my plane and tried to jam my carry-on under the
seat in front of me. I felt like a size 36DD woman trying to squeeze my
sisters into a size 32A bra. The lone flight attendant offered to check
my carry-on. I said edgily, “This is not leaving my side!” Together, we
managed to fit that suitcase under the seat in front of me.
Unfortunately, my legs then didn’t fit, and they had to sit back in seat
10F.
After enduring four flights in 24 hours, one of which was a
white-knuckle flight through snow, wind, and a bolt of lightening that
came within inches of hitting our wing, plus a six-hour delay in the
Chicago airport, I’ve decided to take an Amtrak train the next time I
have a meeting out-of-town.
I heard Amtrak has passenger snack cars and carry-on bags can weigh up
to 50 pounds with no liquid restrictions. My hair is going to look
great. Too bad I won’t be able to see it. I think I have glaucoma.
Airport security broke the bad news during the screening process on my
trip home … right after they asked me if anyone had ever told me I look
like Phyllis Diller.
www.wackywomanhood.com
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Competitive
Tranquility
By Lucia Duff, Minnesota
There is no easy way to break this to
you: competitive yoga exists.
I’ve told you, and I’m sorry about that. Feel free to clutch your head
and stagger around the living room.
“Competitive, yo, no, please make it stop!”
This all came to my attention when I saw an elaborate and glossy ad for
an upcoming “yoga competition.” Is nothing sacred anymore? Even sacred
stuff like yoga?
Now before you think that I’m just a large and doughy malcontent who
shovels in snacks while sneering at fitness competitions, let me assure
you, you’re close.
But I do go to yoga once in a while. Who doesn’t?
Unless you’ve been on a strict no-media regime, you are aware that yoga
has overtaken the nation.
Spinning stopped being cool (sorry grunting guys) a while back.
A pleasantly cult-like calm descended upon the land and every neighbor,
coworker and friend started to speak knowingly of vinyasa flow (don’t
call a plumber). And in hushed and reverent tones about the virtues of
Bikram (that’s the sweaty kind done in sealed rooms at 108 degrees).
The masses were gently drawn to the historically non-competitive nature
of yoga. Beginning classes often call only for the prerequisite of
breathing. Fair enough.
Not practicing yoga has become like saying you don’t believe in the
Internet or basic hygiene.
But this new development that yoga is, in fact, on its way to becoming
an Olympic sport is quite a setback.
I mean, honestly, what’s next, competitive Rosary saying?
Why not? If we’re going to take conceptually serene activities like yoga
and concoct competition around them, I’m keeping my fingers nimble for
the Rosary tournament.
“In this corner, we have Mary Margaret “Holy Fingers” Flannigan. And in
this corner, “Bridget Marie “Beads of Glory” Herlihy! On your mark, get
set, Hail Mary!”
While we’re at it, let’s get competitive about birth, and what the heck,
death!
Stadiums, snacks, parking troubles-the works!
“See you in Miami for the Southeast Birthing Championships.”
“Hope you can book a room in Minneapolis for the American Death Finals.”
I needed to find out more about this whole competitive yoga business.
So, no small surprise, I Googled it.
Talk about coming late to the party. I might as well have Googled “Steam
Engine When Start?”
I learned that the powers that be in the serene and stretchy community
have been at this for a while. There has been a “World Yoga
Championship” with unwieldy and injury-inducing categories for men,
women and teams for years.
Are there spectators and do they yell things?
“Nice serenity, Ashley!” Or “ You call that a sun salutation, Jeremy?”
Yoga has clearly gone to the dreaded “next level.”
I don’t want to go to the next level. I want to lie quietly on a mat.
Rest time for grownups under the guise of meditation and ligament
elongation.
I thought I was set.
But now I just don’t think I’m competitive enough for yoga.
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“I’m
Either Away From My Desk, On The Other Line, Or...”
By Joel Habush, Wisconsin
Or what? You want me to think that you’re either too busy or too
important to answer your phone? You think if you don’t answer, I’ll be
forced to solve the problem on my own, without your being on record of
being involved in a decision that could be the wrong one, and then it
would have been your butt that was on the line?
You were competing in a Tough Man Last Man Standing Competition last
night (you won), and just don’t have the strength to pick up the phone?
You think someone may have used your phone recently, and you have to get
some disinfectant before it’s safe to breathe near it again? You want to
wait and play back my recorded message on speakerphone so you can point
out to all your friends at work what a needy jerk I am?
For whatever reason (the ones above being, to me, the only legitimate
ones), more and more people choose not to answer the phone. Ever. With
an initial screening from the gatekeeper, and with the possibility of
your having Caller ID, you pretty much know who’s calling. So, I
obviously didn’t pass muster for First Response. Now, here, I’m just
talking about at work. At home, you’re free to do whatever you want, or
whatever your spouse lets you think you want.
What else am I not talking about? Wow, the possibilities are endless.
But specifically I’m not talking about subject matter that has been gone
over and over and over again. Namely, trying to get satisfaction in
talking to a real person, even the wrong one, when calling a large
company, after being escorted on a round of “Let’s Play Pavlovian
Prompts,” where you take wild stabs at which option comes closest to the
one you want, then having guessed wrong, making a desperate stab at the
number you think will bring you back to the previous menu because that
would be better than just reaching a point where you hear a dial tone
and realize you have to start all over. When you get that dial tone,
doesn’t it remind you of the flatline you see on your favorite hospital
show (don’t name it--they’re interchangeable) when the little girl
checks out, just when the Resident with the stuffed animal was
celebrating her coming out of little girl surgery).
No, I’m talking about talking (or essentially, not talking) to someone I
know. He or she may even have initiated the call or email. I always
respond within 24 hours, and usually a lot quicker.
But the person who asked for me to contact him, usually with a sense of
urgency, now unfortunately seems to have passed away.
Rather than call the morgue (and with today’s HIPPA regulations, they
probably wouldn’t be able to release that information), what can you do
to get a straight answer around here, anyway?
Okay, I’m calmed down. But, hey, I’m trying to get some work done here,
and you’re not helping any—in fact you are adding to my frustration. Of
course, by “you,” I’m referring to the phonee (just pronounce that and
hear how true that rings), and you, the real you, are just kind of
listening in. And I’m glad somebody is listening.
Now, if I were making calls to sell something, I wouldn’t expect a
return phone call, so I wouldn’t even leave a message.
Let me reiterate, these people contacted me first!
Let me conclude with the non-returned email. When I finally corner my
hoped-to-be correspondent, I get the pat response, “I never got it,”
followed by “there must be something wrong with your server.”
Now, I don’t know my server from a hole in the internet, but that
immediately gets my back up and I defend the people I send a check to
every month with the withering riposte, “Everything I send is getting
through, there must be something wrong with your server.”
And neither one of us knows what the heck we’re talking about.
Standoff.
www.joelhabush.com
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Throwing
Tantrums
By Patricia
McNamee-Rosenberg, Illinois
I thought my years in the social work and counseling field had
prepared me to handle our teenage sons. But after weeks of asking our
two boys to remember to perform difficult tasks, such as flushing the
toilet and picking up clothes, I am sad to report I have stooped to the
level of tantrum throwing. Worse, I am acting like a little girl, crying
and pouting. Even worse, I am acting like my mother.
My mother had twelve children and would lock herself in the bathroom
when she was angry. I do not blame her for needing privacy, and this was
a very effective technique. She tied up one of the two most valuable
rooms in the house. We all would be very apologetic so she would come
out and free up the room. This does not work for me, as we have enough
bathrooms to go around. I could rot in there for all they would care.
In order to motivate my darling boys, I have tried several sophisticated
techniques. First, the guilt route: “Where have I failed you?” Then the
shame route. “Were you raised in a cave?” Now I have turned to stamping
my feet and begging, “Pleeeze clean up after yourself.” The tantrum.
Looking for guidance, I have thought about the religious route. A little
wrath of hellfire and brimstone could go a long way: “You pick up your
room or you will rot in Hell.” Actually, they probably think Hell is
“cool” or “bad,” meaning “they are down with it” or “up with it.” So
instead I could try, “If you don’t flush you will go blind” -- an
all-time favorite of mine. Actually, I did try the religion thing once.
I asked one of my sons, “What would Jesus do?” He replied that Jesus did
not have a toilet or many clothes to pick up as he wore only a tunic and
sandals.
The boys may not keep house well, but, not like Jesus, they do spend a
lot of time on their appearance. Without permission, they pierced their
ears and now want to pierce their lips. I tried using reverse psychology
and hinted that I would pierce my navel and wear midriff tops. They told
me that if I wanted to look like a cheap old woman that was fine with
them. I hadn’t even mentioned that I wasn’t sure if I could find my
belly button in order to pierce it.
When the boys do try to perform chores we have communication issues of
the “Mom, I did not hear you ask that” kind. There is also the selective
memory problem: “I do not remember you telling me to do that.” Finally,
(especially creative) we have the: “If I really do a bad job she won’t
ask me again” ploy. I asked them to take out the garbage before the
garbage man came; instead they brought it all out too late and put the
overflow into the neighbor’s cans. Now the neighbors are throwing
tantrums.
To really understand my plight one needs to see “their bedrooms.” Just
thinking about it makes my hair stand on end. We try not to go into our
boys’ rooms. I am not sure there isn’t a lost boy in a Twinkie-coma
underneath piles of blankets and dirty clothes.
The boys have actually shown their rooms to girls. I thought these young
ladies would scare them straight. But, nooooo... “Your room is awesome!”
they gush. These girls really know how to impress their boyfriend’s
mother. My son and his girlfriend actually wear each other’s clothes.
This is not the old “Can I wear your letter sweater?” of yesterday. The
couple of today trades skinny jeans, shirts and earrings.
The real problem is that our boys happen to be kind of cute, even when
wearing earrings. God made children adorable so their parents would put
up with them. When I am at my wit's end they plop their big arms around
me like oversized puppies. They nuzzle up to me and tell me they love
me. “I’ll clean my room later, Mom, I promise.” “I know, sweetheart,” I
respond, hugging them back. Then they ask me for money.
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A
Hidden Gem
By Tom Oatmeal,
California
The restaurant itself bears no formal
numeric address. It sits snugly against the back wall of a weathered
brick building leased to a tattoo parlor. I was fortunate to stumble
upon it quite by accident, but for those of you who don't have time for
a scavenger hunt, your best bet is to jot down directions to the tattoo
parlor and take advantage of the street parking out front.
Upon arrival, you might be surprised to find that the brick building,
though not particularly large, still manages to completely shield your
view of the quaint eatery sitting behind it. If it weren't difficult
enough to find this restaurant in the first place, the task of reaching
the front doors will be enough to have you cursing my name. And if it
weren't for the wonderful smells permeating the surrounding air, you
might, for the only way for one to gain entry is by climbing any section
of the rusty, chain-link fence surrounding it, a feature that, while
beguiling in this case, would surely doom even the most beloved
restaurants in the city. "Oh the nerve of these people!" you'll think
with a smile. But climb you will because if your appetite hasn't yet
reached its peak then your curiosity soon will.
The eccentric nature of the chef is reflected in every aspect of the
restaurant from the décor to the food itself. The building, though a
plain, dark blue on the outside is constantly seeing the addition of new
decorations on the inside. There appears to be no rhyme or reason to
these modifications and if there are, they certainly aren't done so in
accordance with any of the traditional American holidays. The theme of
September was old diapers and empty tubes of ointment while October gave
us an ode to lard-stained aprons freckled with q-tips and gum wrappers.
Much like the decorations that cover the walls, the chef's food
selection follows no discernable pattern, making it impossible to
categorize this restaurant under any one genre. If a menu exists, I have
yet to see it. Dinner could be swordfish served on a warped piece of
plywood one night and then barbeque beef skewered on the broken shaft of
a 9-iron the next.
The inner-workings of this establishment can take some getting used to.
Orders are not taken, and no currency of any type is collected. After
all, where would they put it? There's no cash register to speak of! And
if ever tables and chairs existed here, they were wisely sacrificed for
the extra space. The process of getting your meal can be a bit of a free
for all. Picture a buffet, but far less depressing as this one is
entirely void of the whiny, theme park-bound vacationers that make Old
Country Buffet a reasonable place to commit suicide.
The nearby neighborhood boasts a competitive air and it isn't beyond
reason to assume that a search of the surrounding square mile could
uncover several of these hidden treasures. The intrusive and at times,
abrasive nature of the locals will only further convince you of that.
Presumably to fill the seats of their own family restaurants, it isn't
past these people to shamelessly approach rival businesses in hopes of
luring hungry patrons right out of their seats.
These methods of persuasion will often times persist long after you've
already begun dining elsewhere. In these instances, verbal
advertisements of any sort quickly give way to petty insults and you
will gleefully discover that you've become the subject of quite the game
of tug-of war.
"You're eating out of a dumpster!" they might yell.
Or "That's a dumpster you idiot! What the hell is the matter with you?!"
Flash them a grin that promises future business and they'll most likely
leave you to eat your meal in piece, which on my most recent visit was
room-temperature chicken marsala served in a soiled moccasin. All in
all, I am at a loss to mention anything disparaging about my many dining
experiences at this charming, unnamed establishment. The food is
delicious, the prices reasonable (free remember?), and the atmosphere
can’t be beat. You don’t want to miss this one!
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