Meine freunde.
Today found our table at the Yardhouse being overtaken by World War II era soldiers.
It started with a misheard comment. "I love au jus."
"What?", I said. "You love all Jews naked?" (No idea why I heard naked.)
Matt, who is half Jewish and never lives it down, was tossed up as the sacrifice for the joke. I looked over to him, then back to Martin.
"Which half?"
As Martin and I broke up in to giggling laughter (the same that hit us for the whole drive home after having techno-remixes of Disney songs forced on us in the rental office of one of the apartments we were looking at, by the more feminine half of Will and Gra-- I mean, Lawrence and What's Her Name, and then again when we found out Martin had -- in an attempt to annoy/entertain Matt in the car behind us by alternating turn signals and spraying his back windshield with water -- accidentally hit the ticket booth operator with the water from his wipers), Matt just shook his head.
"Not the half with the fork!" Bryce said, as Matt had been brandishing it as a weapon all night long.
A few minutes later, Martin was playing with his pickle, which he speared with the two little wooden stakes that held his roast beef dip together ("I could stake a midget vampire with these!"), dripping ketchup blood. The pickle soon gained a piece of parsley for a mustache, and Martin raised it up and danced it around, proclaiming it Pickle Hitler.
The pickle toppled into his au jus, which was somehow a metaphor for war-torn Germany, and Pickle Hitler screeched in pain. "He's waiting for the allied a-salt!" Martin proclaimed, brandishing the salt shaker and shaking it quite menacingly at the fallen dictator. The race was on, then. In tandem, Martin and Bryce cast the rest of the condiments.
The malt vinegar bottle marched over from where it'd been sitting peacefully by my fish and chips. "It's Malt Chamberlain!"
The fry which had been impaled on another small wooden stake Bryce picked up, flying it in towards Matt's nose, before switching its attack to Pickle Hitler. "The Germans are frying in to get you!"
The Heinz ketchup became something, though I thoroughly forget what Martin cast it as. The mustard, though, worked quite well. Martin poured it over Pickle Hitler, still trapped in the au jus bowl. "Ahhh! Mustard gas!"
We all cracked up at our own hilarity.
Later on, just before we were leaving to head back home, Martin grinned at us.
"You know why Hitler was such an awful guy? He was just a sauerkraut."
It started with a misheard comment. "I love au jus."
"What?", I said. "You love all Jews naked?" (No idea why I heard naked.)
Matt, who is half Jewish and never lives it down, was tossed up as the sacrifice for the joke. I looked over to him, then back to Martin.
"Which half?"
As Martin and I broke up in to giggling laughter (the same that hit us for the whole drive home after having techno-remixes of Disney songs forced on us in the rental office of one of the apartments we were looking at, by the more feminine half of Will and Gra-- I mean, Lawrence and What's Her Name, and then again when we found out Martin had -- in an attempt to annoy/entertain Matt in the car behind us by alternating turn signals and spraying his back windshield with water -- accidentally hit the ticket booth operator with the water from his wipers), Matt just shook his head.
"Not the half with the fork!" Bryce said, as Matt had been brandishing it as a weapon all night long.
A few minutes later, Martin was playing with his pickle, which he speared with the two little wooden stakes that held his roast beef dip together ("I could stake a midget vampire with these!"), dripping ketchup blood. The pickle soon gained a piece of parsley for a mustache, and Martin raised it up and danced it around, proclaiming it Pickle Hitler.
The pickle toppled into his au jus, which was somehow a metaphor for war-torn Germany, and Pickle Hitler screeched in pain. "He's waiting for the allied a-salt!" Martin proclaimed, brandishing the salt shaker and shaking it quite menacingly at the fallen dictator. The race was on, then. In tandem, Martin and Bryce cast the rest of the condiments.
The malt vinegar bottle marched over from where it'd been sitting peacefully by my fish and chips. "It's Malt Chamberlain!"
The fry which had been impaled on another small wooden stake Bryce picked up, flying it in towards Matt's nose, before switching its attack to Pickle Hitler. "The Germans are frying in to get you!"
The Heinz ketchup became something, though I thoroughly forget what Martin cast it as. The mustard, though, worked quite well. Martin poured it over Pickle Hitler, still trapped in the au jus bowl. "Ahhh! Mustard gas!"
We all cracked up at our own hilarity.
Later on, just before we were leaving to head back home, Martin grinned at us.
"You know why Hitler was such an awful guy? He was just a sauerkraut."