Chrissop's Fable...
I love a good Pita -- almost as much as I love a first conversation with somebody I've never met. It's got everything I could ask for: meat, cheese, tomatoes, black olives, and... pita.
But recently, I had a rather disheartening Pita experience. Spirits were high, as I was readying my mind for fall break, and stomachs were empty, as I had not filled my stomachs with food or cud recently. I joyfully skipped into collegetown, to grab a quick meal before heading back home. All along the way, I was saying hi to strangers, kissing babies, putting my coat down in puddles for girls, picking gum off the sidewalk -- I mean, I was in a good mood.
So, I skipped into our town's pita restaurant. That's right, we've got a pita restaurant. I knew the cashier as a friend of a friend, so I start talking to him about stuff. Random stuff really, not important at all... which is why I didn't mind that when two hot girls walked in to get something he forgot I existed and started up a completely new conversation in perfect segue. Completely understandable. I would've done the same thing, although I probably would have said goodbye or something first.
So, I, happy and without care, attempt to strike up a new conversation with the pita-maker guy. Now, typically when you start a conversation with a complete stranger, you have to find some common ground to start on. Like, "I have that shirt too," which is a winner when you're talking to someone of the opposite sex, or, "You seem to be on fire," which is a winner if they actually are on fire. In my situation, however, it was just some random guy that I was trying to start conversation up with. He was neither on fire nor a member of the opposite sex, thus exhausting my repertoire of opening lines.
Being the quick witted young lad that I pride myself on being, my mind searched for possibilities:
I like pita. He's holding a pita in his hands. I have hands. I'm going to use my hands to put my pita in my mouth. If I didn't have hands I'd have to pick up my pita with my mouth. If I didn't have a mouth -- well I'd rather not think about how I'd go about eating a pita. Hmm... it seems I'm finding a lot of commonalities amongst the subject of "pita". Let's go with that.
So I said it.
Seeing that the guy had asked for about every condiment and vegetable available to put on a pita, I took a shot and said, "That's a pretty big pita you're making there." He quickly glanced in my direction and the response came:
"Fuck you, buddy."
I stood there stunned for a few seconds. Then, in obvious confusion, I replied, "Is that some kind of insult nowadays?" However, the man responded as if I had asked the question, "Please, sir, can you explain your job situation?"
"At Dino's down the street, I get paid more without the hassle of cooking."
"Oh yeah?" I replied, questioning this guy's mental status. I ventured to ask an obvious question, "They don't have enough hours there though?"
I actually got it right this time. "Yeah, man, not enough hours. Whaddya want on your pita?"
So, we finished our encounter in silent understanding: he understood that the words I was saying corresponded to the condiments in the bin in front of him, and I understood that he was in need of some help.
The next time I went, he burnt my pita along with my roommate's. Whether or not it was intentional, I'll never know; however, I'll never forget the moral of the story.
If you're telling a guy that's he's making a big pita, you're making a big mistake.
But recently, I had a rather disheartening Pita experience. Spirits were high, as I was readying my mind for fall break, and stomachs were empty, as I had not filled my stomachs with food or cud recently. I joyfully skipped into collegetown, to grab a quick meal before heading back home. All along the way, I was saying hi to strangers, kissing babies, putting my coat down in puddles for girls, picking gum off the sidewalk -- I mean, I was in a good mood.
So, I skipped into our town's pita restaurant. That's right, we've got a pita restaurant. I knew the cashier as a friend of a friend, so I start talking to him about stuff. Random stuff really, not important at all... which is why I didn't mind that when two hot girls walked in to get something he forgot I existed and started up a completely new conversation in perfect segue. Completely understandable. I would've done the same thing, although I probably would have said goodbye or something first.
So, I, happy and without care, attempt to strike up a new conversation with the pita-maker guy. Now, typically when you start a conversation with a complete stranger, you have to find some common ground to start on. Like, "I have that shirt too," which is a winner when you're talking to someone of the opposite sex, or, "You seem to be on fire," which is a winner if they actually are on fire. In my situation, however, it was just some random guy that I was trying to start conversation up with. He was neither on fire nor a member of the opposite sex, thus exhausting my repertoire of opening lines.
Being the quick witted young lad that I pride myself on being, my mind searched for possibilities:
I like pita. He's holding a pita in his hands. I have hands. I'm going to use my hands to put my pita in my mouth. If I didn't have hands I'd have to pick up my pita with my mouth. If I didn't have a mouth -- well I'd rather not think about how I'd go about eating a pita. Hmm... it seems I'm finding a lot of commonalities amongst the subject of "pita". Let's go with that.
So I said it.
Seeing that the guy had asked for about every condiment and vegetable available to put on a pita, I took a shot and said, "That's a pretty big pita you're making there." He quickly glanced in my direction and the response came:
"Fuck you, buddy."
I stood there stunned for a few seconds. Then, in obvious confusion, I replied, "Is that some kind of insult nowadays?" However, the man responded as if I had asked the question, "Please, sir, can you explain your job situation?"
"At Dino's down the street, I get paid more without the hassle of cooking."
"Oh yeah?" I replied, questioning this guy's mental status. I ventured to ask an obvious question, "They don't have enough hours there though?"
I actually got it right this time. "Yeah, man, not enough hours. Whaddya want on your pita?"
So, we finished our encounter in silent understanding: he understood that the words I was saying corresponded to the condiments in the bin in front of him, and I understood that he was in need of some help.
The next time I went, he burnt my pita along with my roommate's. Whether or not it was intentional, I'll never know; however, I'll never forget the moral of the story.
If you're telling a guy that's he's making a big pita, you're making a big mistake.