It was a sluggish Sunday morning when a family of four came in to eat. They were friendly and polite, and asked to be seated outside on the patio. I greeted them and brought them their drinks in routine fashion.
When I began taking their order, the mother tried to get her son (of about six or seven years) to order for himself.
“Brian, tell the man what you’d like to eat.”
At this point, Brian was way too busy drawing something that resembled Superman posing like the figure in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” on his mat to care about what he was going to eat.
“Brian, look up at the man and tell him what you want to eat.”
Sensing his mother’s aggravated tone, Brian looked up at me. He thought for a few seconds, then responded.
“I want… a penis.”
Brian and I found this to be rather hilarious, and at his mother’s pleading, he only said it again louder, “I want a penis!” Dad was also doing a miserable job at hiding how funny he thought it was.
“Well sir, we’re fresh out of that today, but we do have hot dogs…”
Alright, I didn’t really say that, but I wish I had (I cracked some lame joke about not having that on the menu). But despite my poor timing, Brian hit it on the nose. I love kids. Sometimes.