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Today the old man decides to spend the big bucks and take me out to dinner.

This means, of course, pizza; eaten at the pizzaria.

I was dressed for the occasion: jeans, sneakers, and an Exxon t-shirt with just one or two *small* oil stains on it. Nothing huge or in an embarrassing spot, like just over my nipples or anything; just random oil spots.

Little did we know that the dining area of the pizza shop became a bit more formal in the evening. We had to wait by a "Please Wait to be Seated" sign while some broad clucked and wondered where she was going to put us inappropriately-dressed heathens.

The only table left was right smack in the center of yuppie central, so in we went.

The table had a candle on it, burning brightly. The waiter plopped a basket of bread wrapped in a napkin to keep warm, in the center of the table by the candle.

At this point, perhaps I should remind you that I am blind in my right eye. I see a grey haze out of ol' deadeye, and this fucks with my depth perception.

We have our two youngest sprog with us. When bread baskets come out in restaurants they lose all semblance of humanity-- jumping in their seats, looking for the pats of butter and brandishing butter knives; so I decided it would be best to dole out the bread for them before the little savage^^^^darlings decided to war over the semolina.

I flipped over the napkin to get the bread. Unbeknownst to me, the corner went right into the candle's flame; I thought it landed *next* to the candle.

My son tried to get my attention, but I told him to wait his turn while I asked my daughter if she wanted butter.

That's when I noticed the first small flame shoot up.

Hubby plopped his hand over the little flame to extinquish it; another larger flame shot out from the side of his hand. Finally, after swatting and smashing the bread, the basket, the napkins, and the pats of butter, we were able to extinguish the blaze. Bread crumbs, bits of wicker basket, and ash were everywhere. Hubby's hands--the knarled, calloused paws that they are--were unhurt.

I did the only honorable thing left to do to break the deadly silence in the restaurant.

I laughed my fucking ass off. The riotous laughter caused some built-up flatus to quickly exit my sphincter; almost like canned applause.

My husband's eyes went wide, and then he began laughing too. The kids held their noses. The teenager at the next table looked at me with awed respect. The old coots at another table shot looks that should have killed me.

And I thoroughly enjoyed my pizza when it finally arrived.

As I type this, reeking of burned cotton and belching tomato sauce, all I can really wonder is if our evening out killed my shot at gettin' laid tonight.


credit given to original author if known

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