Of the Pope and Fried Pickles

I don't remember my parents having conversations like many of those we have here at MisFit Farm. For that matter, I don't remember many people having conversations like many of those we have here at MisFit Farm.

K and I snuck out for lunch one day last week, to partake of the seasonal delight of pumpkin pancakes at a local greasy spoon, Hanover's Pancake House. If anyone should find him or herself in the Topeka area within the next couple months, Hanover's pumpkin pancakes come highly recommended. So do their fried pickles, but I would not recommend both in the same sitting.

In the booth behind us (well, behind me - which was a blessing as I would have been completely engulfed, had I been able to both look AND listen), two women spent the entire time talking about other people. We don't have that problem here at the Farm. We have lots of nonsense to keep us entertained.

K: Uh – oh, looks like you have company.

A: Huh. Trinity. Hey, Trin, I was trying to accomplish something here. You stink. You still smell like skunk on your face. Maybe you can sit on my lap later this decade.

K: She’s coming up anyhow.

A: So I see.

K: How can you continue to type while she’s squirming up into your lap?

A: I dunno. Is this a trick question? Is the answer: a ruthless devotion to the Pope?

K: Eeeeeewwwww – she smells like skunk.

A: Only the head part.

K: Eeeeeewwwww – she’s putting her head on your shoulder. It’s right by your face! How can you stand it?!?!?!?!

A: The smell or the fur in my mouth?

K: Eeeeeewwww – all I can say is, you must really love her.

A: Nah, I just respect her for having such low standards.