by Norm De Plume
“Moron?” she said sweetly, smiling, making the word into a question. “Moron?”
Patrick remained seated, saying nothing, as the plastic object laying beside him on the padded bench buzzed to life.
He fumed silently.
“Moron, anyone? Moron? Going once…”
He rose quickly, furious, and slammed the blinking, vibrating pager onto the Applebee’s hostess station.
“It’s Moran, you idiot. MorAN. It’s a very common name.” He grabbed his protesting wife by the arm and dragged her out the front door.
Such rudeness! The hostess took a few seconds to compose herself, made a brisk tick on her clipboard, and moved on to the next name the list.
“Right here.” Roger Asswipe couldn’t wait to get to his table, as he’d been dreaming about Applebee’s Chicken Parmesan Tanglers all day long.