Finding ourselves with a little bit of time on our hands, The Squirrel Master and I decided to dine at Fazoli’s.
I’ve been dieting (and by that I mean I have been nervously eyeballing my bikinis that would be pretty pissed if I tried to wriggle my big ass into them and openly hostile with my jeans that almost don’t button anymore) but I’d also been jonesing pretty hard for a Fazoli’s penne chicken bake. The Squirrel loves their spaghetti and meatballs so I figured we’d stop and eat.
A few carbs never hurt anyone.
Well, anyone who eats in the restaurant is privy to an endless supply of freshly baked garlic breadsticks. There is a guy who walks around with a basket and says “Would you like some more breadsticks?” and I’m all “Does a one legged duck paddle in circles?” and the guy just stood there considering that for a moment before my crotchfruit sighed said “You might as well just leave the basket.”
Seriously. Walk away.
So I’m sitting there in a booth, dipping the sticks in my pasta sauce and snarfing down the buttery confections like my life depended on it. “Go ask him for more,” I demanded of my spawn who had the nerve to claim the remaining breadstick for himself.
“Mom…you seriously just ate like twelve of them!”
“Yep and my diet is all done for today. Go tell him your mother lost her mind and ate all of them and you’d like some for yourself.”
He dutifully returned to the counter and requested more breadsticks and they smiled kindly at him and shot me a look of judgment and disgust.
Then the guy who didn’t know anything about one legged ducks (0r, it turns out, whether or not bears shit in the woods) haughtily arrived with a fresh basket of sticks and began piling them on my plate and I wondered helplessly how in the hell I was ever going to stop eating them when It Happened.
And elderly couple with an impressive crotchfruit entourage arrived in the dining area. They kind of took over the entire space, yelling and clamoring for seats and coughing and not covering their mouths.
“Awww, that’s sweet,” I thought to myself, stuffing another breadstick in my mouth. “They’re giving the spawns’ parental units a deserved night off.”
I turned my attention back to my son (breadsticks) and noticed a quizzical look on his face.
“What,” I mumbled over my mouthful of carbs.
“Uhhh, what’s wrong with that guy’s HEAD?” The Squirrel Master shout-whispered.
Shrugging, I turned to look at Gramps and sure enough, he had this gigantic sucking wound on the top of his head. It was kind of crusty, but also green and oozy. I swallowed thickly.
“What IS that?” The Squirrel pressed, nibbling on a meatball.
The truth was, I didn’t KNOW what the fuck it was. Maybe his wife got mad and brained him with a fence board. Perhaps he didn’t crouch far enough whilst navigating a crawlspace. It could have even been the aftermath of the removal of a suspicious mole…my leg was goddamned disgusting for a couple of weeks but I had the good sense to keep that funky shit covered in public.
I realized I was gaping openly and managed to tear my attention away long enough to glance down at the vestiges of my creamy basil sauce. It looked identical to the soupy glaze on the old guy’s scalp. And my son was expectantly waiting for an explanation.
“Dude, some people like to keep their dipping sauce on their heads. If you watch long enough you’ll see him dip a breadstick in there.”
The Squirrel Master guffawed. “MOM NO HE WON’T! THAT’S SO GROSS I’M GONNA PUKE!”
Me too. I’m definitely not fucking hungry anymore.
And I’m pretty sure I’ll never eat another breadstick as long as I live, because I will never be able to escape the image of accidentally (or on purpose) dipping it into that poor man’s MRSA-laden head hole.
I think I’ll call it a divine intervention…or something like that.