LET THE WITCH HUNT BEGIN, AND A BREAKFAST TALE

Ted Haggard Quote of the Day:

We pray that lies would be exposed.
We pray that deception would be exposed.

’nuff said.
***********************************************************
No shoes, No shirt, No Service

Imagine yourself sitting in your usual seat in the Waffle House where you eat breakfast every day before going to work.
Still a little groggy, you take a long gulp of orange juice, followed by a sip of coffee, as you prepare to tuck into a plate of fried eggs, hash browns, and steak.
Suddenly however, the relative calm of the restaurant is shattered. A very disheveled looking nude woman has burst into your world, shrieking and jabbering incomprehensibly. She pauses for a moment in the foyer whirling her arms and revolving in place, looking for all the world like a hairless Tasmanian Devil from a Warner Brothers cartoon.
A child starts sobbing loudly, and the short order chef starts bellowing, “What the fuck” at the top of his lungs.
She is now running straight at you, waving her arms wildly. In a moment of panic you lose control and urinate yourself. Mother of God, she passes you by, heading straight for the bathroom.
But all is not well yet. Now a nude man has entered the restaurant, roaring at the top of his lungs. A waitress faints dead away, and the man jumps over her as he chases the nude woman disappearing into the bathroom.
At this point, you quietly get up from your seat, fairly confident that no one is watching your movements too closely. The naked man is attempting to pull the door to the ladies room off it’s hinges as he bellows curses at the screaming woman inside.
You are frustrated, however, in your plans to make a quiet getaway, as the one small child in the restaurant who has managed to keep her savoir faire loudly proclaims for all to hear, “Mommy, that man pee-peed himself.
The naked man now shoves you to the ground. He has given up on his quest to throttle the naked woman in the bathroom and is evidently attempting to flee the scene, as the sound of police sirens herald the approach of Law Enforcement.
After a brief entrance in which a tiny, extremely butch policewoman tells everyone in an authoritative manner that they may not leave the scene, the fleeing nude man is tackled in the parking lot by a young, fit police officer, followed by several more senior officers, heaving and bubbling.
The woman in the bathroom seems to have passed out.
You spend the next several hours sitting around in the Waffle House, waiting to be questioned by the police woman, who assumes that you’re a homeless wino who just came in out of the cold. The little girl referred to earlier attempts to comfort you by telling stories of how she has peepeed her self in public before, too. Your wet pants are getting cold, as you try to decide if you’re going to tell any of this to your coworkers, or if you’ll just tell them you had a hot date with a sleepover, and risk losing your job.
You decide that you’d prefer to lose your job rather than allow this information to ever reach your coworkers. You purposely sit in a cold and drafty spot, avoiding any warmth, as the heat makes your urine soaked trousers stink worse.
As the sniggering policewoman tells you that you’re free to go back to the park bench that she thinks you call home, a very angry short order cook demands to know in a loud voice if you intend to pay your bill.
You feel a cold coming on, as you have gotten a chill from sitting around all morning in your new, urine soaked $100 Haggar slacks.
You go home, take off your cold, wet, stinking clothes, take a very long, hot shower, fall into bed and pull up the covers, and stay there for thirtysix hours until your worried boyfriend batters down the door to check on you.
At which point, you’re ready for his ministering touch.

All’s well that ends well, right?

Read it in the news.
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Some have entertained Angels unawares…

Be loved,

DEL

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8 Responses to “LET THE WITCH HUNT BEGIN, AND A BREAKFAST TALE”

  1. Lemuel Says:

    (h)o angelos
    masculine. singular the messenger, angel
    (h)oi angeloi
    masculine. plural. the messengers, angels

    I like your concept of angels better than those I’ve seen on church ceilings. Then again, tehy are not much different.

  2. Em Says:

    Lordy.

  3. Alan Says:

    Quite the story. I assume you know someone this happened to? 🙂

  4. Foxy Stone Says:

    People are sheep, bleating at the first sign of trouble. Try facing down a drunk six foot six man behind the counter of a bathhouse office who is trying to throw a microwave at you because you replaced the boss’s affections and he was and still is the boss’s boyfriend?

    …that was in the first month of my employment at the Arena…

    After six years of employment there i have seen my share of naked incoherent (sometimes incontinent) babbling naked guys… and a few women as well…

    so i would not pee-pee my pants

  5. Kalvin Says:

    That’s why I don’t eat there. If I’m good will these angels come and knock on my door?

  6. Mikey Says:

    Peepee in my pants…mmmmm…nope! I have seen too many scary things in my life. My refexes now do not include peepee. Survival can depend on reflexes, so I want my energy to go to fight or flight.

  7. Joshua Says:

    My Sweet Lord, that’s pretty much a day from hell!!!!

  8. Red7Eric Says:

    Was this YOU??!! I’m guessing since you knew the brand name and price of the, er, “urine-soaked slacks” then yes, it was.

    Hey, look on the bright side; you’ve got a boyfriend who beats on your door when you hide away. And that, my friend, is a beautiful thing.

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