Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Rachel Ray, eat your heart out
We went to a church lunch banquet last weekend that was catered by a local Italian place. Pasta, bread, pizza, and so on. It was pretty good.

The church had the right idea too... paper plates and plastic forks and disposable tablecloths. Cleanup was going to be a cinch, with one small snag. There must not be ANY leftovers.

The first time through the line we all got a scoop of pasta and a slice of pizza. Anyone who went through a second time got a softball-sized lump of pasta and four "Oops! They're stuck together tee-hee!" slices of pizza.

The pastor commented toward the end, "Everybody please take some leftovers home with you... slip it in a pocket, enjoy it later." One of the guys we sat with pantomimed sticking a slice of pizza in his pocket.

I washed my hands... I think...
I had no pocket, so I pantomimed pulling something out of the neck of my shirt. "Here," I said, holding out my hand. "I brought home some pasta."

Three people at my table gagged, hard. It was glorious. Then, one of the ladies at the table topped me.

"It gives a whole new meaning to 'Angel Hair' pasta...", she said.

I gagged, hard.


At 8:33 AM, Blogger V said...

Pasta. It will put hair on your chest.

Blogword "manlees" We'll just leave it at that.

At 8:34 AM, Anonymous P-Ziddy said...

Pasta. It is hair on your chest.

At 8:35 AM, Blogger jeff.w.mcclung said...

Thank goodness there were no breadsticks.

At 8:38 AM, Blogger V said...

Pasta. The sign of impending manhood.

Breadsticks. The sign bread. Yes.


Post a Comment

<< Home