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Why I prefer my toothpicks to be artfully whittled - It seemed like a good idea at the time... [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
terribleturnip

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Why I prefer my toothpicks to be artfully whittled [Jul. 17th, 2008|02:02 pm]
terribleturnip
So, only too late do I realize that that flash of yellow-orange on my fork that I saw out of the corner of my eye during the business lunch is actually the damn cellophane frill from the toothpick that held my Reuben sandwich together.

And there it is in my mouth, mixed in with said forkful of Reuben. Which I am eating with a fork in the first place because it was a messy, falling apart kind of construction and I am eating with several people who are NOT ready for the real me, raw and uncut. Who may, if I value my position, NEVER be ready.

So, rather than make a funny scene...my natural instinct...I swallow it.

I can feel it there, unravelled. Starting at the back of my throat and winding all the way down to my stomach. Burning. (Aren't psychosomatic visions awesomely powerful?)

I anticipate that it will take at least three ciders to wash it out of my upper GI.
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: thatliardiego
2008-07-17 06:27 pm (UTC)
I suggest that, against the angels of your better nature, you do not illustrate this process with pictures.
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[User Picture]From: pyllgrum
2008-07-17 06:42 pm (UTC)
I hate it when that happens.. I have also been known to bite into a sandwich and embed a toothpick into the roof of my mouth.

Which is why I never order sandwiches at a business lunch. I just do horse divers.
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[User Picture]From: pyratelady
2008-07-17 07:05 pm (UTC)
I anticipate that it will take at least three ciders to wash it out of my upper GI.

"And that, Your Honor, is the reason my client was found drunk in public before 5 pm."
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[User Picture]From: lowlandscot
2008-07-17 07:06 pm (UTC)
I'm thinkin' soup and a salad -- for the rest of my life.

You need an excuse to drink three ciders?
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[User Picture]From: im_geva
2008-07-17 08:14 pm (UTC)
I have great sympathy for you.

But, really, there is no need to get graphic when you find it upon it's exit from your body.

'K? thanks!
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[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-07-17 08:53 pm (UTC)
Emily Post would suggest* discreetly removing the offending substance into a conveniently folded napkin, while assuming the fiction that you are merely wiping your mouth.
I would simply pick up the plate and throw it at the nearest waiter, while vomiting on my dining companions and screaming vile curses at the top of my lungs.

*If she were not dead.
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[User Picture]From: thatliardiego
2008-07-17 09:10 pm (UTC)
Which is why you're sought-after dinner company in all the finest prisons.
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[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-07-17 09:12 pm (UTC)
Better that then your status as "most popular bunkmate", Pokey.
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[User Picture]From: terribleturnip
2008-07-17 09:35 pm (UTC)
When said strip of cellophane is artfuly mired in a not small wad of corned beef, cheese and sauerkraut...there is no such thing as discreet. There is only giant hairball of Reuben.

Besides Post is a p*ssy. Miss Manners RULES!
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[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-07-17 10:09 pm (UTC)
I regret that I have have given you the impression that I admired Ms. Post's advice.
Personally, I'm glad that she's dead.
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[User Picture]From: thatliardiego
2008-07-18 03:43 am (UTC)
Coward. Emily Post will have you as her bitch in Hell.
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[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-07-18 03:48 am (UTC)
You say that as if it's a bad thing.
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[User Picture]From: thatliardiego
2008-07-18 03:52 am (UTC)
Laugh now, doily-boy...
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[User Picture]From: lowlandscot
2008-07-17 09:55 pm (UTC)
Emily Post would suggest*....*If she were not dead.

Oh, who are you kidding. That bossy old broad is probably at this very moment smacking the Blessed Virgin's elbows off the dinner table and scolding the Archangel Michael for not using his fish fork. Unless she went the other direction, in which case she's probably the star attraction at the bottom rung of Purgatory. [At this point of the narrative I swoon away from vertigo induced by the painful memories of endless Saturday afternoons in the Ayres Tea Room with my starchy old grandmother. I was incapable of moving a finger, uttering a syllable, or simply existing without violating a dozen Emily Post Prime Directives simultaneously. Recalling the odious volume in its scratchy taupe binding still makes my stomach lurch in dread.]
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[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-07-17 10:11 pm (UTC)
Now, see! That's JUST what I'm sayin'.
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