today we salute you: mr. foot in the mouth
on tuesday night, in the cozy confines of the brewers’ dugout, i asked our fifty year old assistant coach if the twenty-something girl bringing him updates on the sox-yankees game was his daughter. after he turned two shades of red he smirked and said “actually, she’s my girlfriend.” after i apologized for my oversight he quickly said, “that’s okay. you’re from the midwest and unaccustomed to such twists.”
ugh. i hate having foot for dinner.
this encounter reminded me of the time my friend clark, who had come out of the closet to me only days before, came into my dorm room wearing a somewhat muted but still unmistakable hawaiian shirt. as soon as my roommate kurt took one look at clark he said, “clark, don’t take this the wrong way, but the only people who can pull off hawaiian shirts are fat guys and flaming homosexuals.”
has your foot provided you with any memorable meals? if so, spill.
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