Saturday, August 26th, 2006

Happy birthday to Tim!

Happy birthday to Tim!

Let’s have supper with Nazis!

Wait … supper with Nazis?

Nazis. Jackboot-wearing Nazis. Skinheaded, swastikas tattooed on their necks, wearing t-shirts made to look like rock concert souvenirs with the dates of “Hitler’s European Tour” on the back.

It was the first time we’d been to a Denny’s in nine, maybe ten years. We thought it would be a goofy treat for Tim on his birthday. He ordered a big stack of pancakes to stuff down his neck and we were enjoying the nostalgia of the moment when Barb’s eyes got all serious and she said, “Oh, no.”

She was facing the parking lot. I had to turn around but all I needed was a glance to know they were Nazis. Don’t rush to judge me. If they’d been wearing brown shirts, arm bands, goose-stepping across the parking lot singing “Deutchland über alles” it would have been just as obvious. It’s not like they blend in.

We were in the non-smoking section. “Maybe they’re all smoking Nazis,” I said hopefully, but of course they weren’t. They crowded in, re-arranged several tables and sat down right behind us.

I realized I would have to look at them all through my meal. I wanted to ask the waiter if he could seat us in the smoking section, but I didn’t. I wimped out. I got all self-important and thought, I’m a big boy, I don’t have to get all bent out of shape about this. I may be all grown up, but it turns out I’ve got some pretty visceral feelings about Nazis I can’t set aside. The waiter set that plate of scrumptious French toast in front of me and I suddenly had no appetite at all. It would have been more appetizing if he’d dumped it on the floor of the men’s room.

When our waiter cashed us out, he apologized for not coming by to freshen our coffee and do all the rest of that waiting stuff. He was busy helping the waitress take orders from the Nazis and bring them their Cokes, almost as if they were normal customers. Why do they even serve Nazis, anyway? The government has to let them speak in public places, but Denny’s doesn’t have to serve them. It’s a private restaurant. Turning Nazis away at the door is not the same as, for instance, refusing to serve gays. Homosexuals don’t proclaim they’re the master race and slander ethnics. I guess Nazis have to eat, just like the rest of us, but why can’t the manager give them directions to the grocery store and suggest a nice picnic table along the side of the road where they can make some sandwiches?

Oh, listen to me talk. I couldn’t even get up and move out of the section.

Freaking Nazis.

One thing’s for sure: It’s a birthday meal Tim won’t soon forget.

dinner with Nazis | 7:08 am CDT
Category: daily drivel, O'Folks, story time, T-Dawg
Comments Off on dinner with Nazis

Comments are closed.