I don't know a secret language

The other day, my wife, and our kids and I went to our local In-n-Out Burger (Tee hee! Their name sounds like fuckin!), to enjoy some "real potato french fries" and "real milk milkshakes" and "'real cheese cheese 'real cow burgers."" I love to go to the In-n-Out. I love any place with a menu that limited. You can get a burger, a cheese burger, or a double cheeseburger. That's it. No other entree. No decision about what sort of cheese you want on your burger, or whether you want it mesquite flavored, or slathered with barbecue sauce, or whether you'd really rather have a fish burger, or maybe a healthy salad with three sides of large fries. Nope, you get a burger. Your only choice is about how many, and whether cheese is involved. It's freakin' brilliant.

Well, as sometimes happens in this oh so hectic world, we were NOT the only people there. Damn and drat! The surprising thing, however, was that the restaurant was already very full of very old people.

Nothing wrong with the oldsters. Hope to be one myself one day. But so much gray. . .well, it was a little alarming.

After we got our food (cheap!), we sat at an empty booth (dirty!), and I decided to communicate something privately to my wife.

Ever since my oldest daughter began to talk, my wife and I have employed the time-tested technique of spelling certain words so that the little 'un couldn't understand us. We've become quite adept at it. We can rattle off entire sentences, and still be understood by the other. Subconsciously, I began thinking of it as another language that only me and my wife speak. I mean, every day we manage to talk to one another in a way that a third person in our house couldn't understand, so it's understandable that I would think of it as our private language, right?

As we munched our burgers, I told my wife, "man, there sure are a lot of G-E-E-Z-E-R-S here today." Since the restaurant was crowded, I had to say it somewhat loudly. It didn't occur to me that all of these people around me that I was so openly insulting could, you know, spell. After I realized my error, I spun frantically about, ready to apologize, or better yet, stare down any offended oldsters in the vicinity.

It seems I lucked out. Even if they could spell, apparently they couldn't hear. I didn't see so much as a raised eyebrow among my neighbors.

Well, it was funny to me.

How does one "Hench?"

I’ve been thinking about a career change for some time, and I’ve decided to take the plunge into henching. Oh, sure, attorneying's been a lark, but I think henching would fit perfectly into my hobby of toadying and intimidating people. Apparently, from the Batman comic books I’ve been reading, I wouldn’t have to say much beyond “Oof!” or “Blag!” That’s a plus. You really only have to deal with the public when you're menacing bank clerks during an unduly elaborate heist. I’m pretty good at following orders, though my attention does wander on occasions, meaning I only understand part of the order before I start thinking of sandwiches. I don’t mind dressing up in a costume that’s identical to all of my fellow henchmen, or that I would likely receive a nickname that’s in keeping with my boss’ chosen character. If the “Killer Bee” wants to call me “Drone,”or if “Elephantiasis” wants to call me “Swelling,” or if “Barbara Bush” wants to call me “Winged Monkey #46,” then so be it, as long as I get my thin sliver of the booty.

Of course, while there’s certainly perks about henching (girls love a guy in costume), there’s also the downside. Apparently, henchmen get the shit kicked out of them by the hero or his teenage sidekick. Then you have to lay on a cold floor while your boss dukes it out with hero-boy.

But I think I could take a 90 pound teenager. And I figure after a few heists, I could probably sock away enough to be comfortable for a while, and could shop for better villains with less ludicrous costumes. If you wait until the “Big Score,” you’re just asking to be thwarted.

An open letter to the guy I saw at Home Depot

I've known you for three years now. You're a sheriff's deputy, and you transport my clients between court and jail. We've spoken many, many times. We've talked about movies, specifically the ones that you like, and sports, despite the fact that I hate them all. We've exchanged quips about other attorneys and nutty inmates.
And then I saw you in Home Depot. I was with my wife and kids. You approached me.
I realized suddenly that, despite knowing you for three years, and I never bothered to learn your name.
Talk about a social predicament.
Until I saw you in Home Depot, I never cared. You called me by name. Not knowing yours, I said "hi," and ran away.