“I’ll have a cheeseburger with fruit,” I said, without so much as a glance at the menu.
“Did you want everything on it?” our waitress asked.
“Yes, but I don’t want any of that salad dressing on the bun,” I said, looking her straight in the eye.
“No...salad...dressing...on... the... bun,” she repeated while making a special note on the order form.
By then my wife had decided what she wanted, and away went the waitress to turn in our order.
Pretty soon, here she came, wearing a big smile as she zig-zagged between the tables, then plopped our plates down in front of us. And there was my cheeseburger, lying open-faced with gobs of salad dressing spread over the upturned bun.
“I said I didn’t want any salad dressing on the bun,” I growled.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, as she picked up the unwelcome bun.
“Boy, I bet she’s going to give the cook a piece of her mind,” I was thinking.
But, no, she just took the bun in the palm of her hand and scraped it over the edge of our table, leaving most of the pinkish salad dressing dripping off the table and onto the floor next to my feet.
“There,” she said, as she tossed the slightly squashed bun back on my plate, “How’s that?”
“Uhh,” I said, just as she burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for years,” she managed to get out between belly laughs, and wouldn’t you know it, pretty soon she had everybody in the restaurant laughing.
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