The Anchoritic Diner

You know the guy we’re talking about, dear reader. And, boy, does he burn our collective britches. We’ll bet that he irks you too.

Allow us to set the scene. You and a few buddies have grabbed a table at a local restaurant, eager to take in some well-earned victuals after a hard day at the office. Soon you’ll be transported into prandial bliss, thanks to the folks at TGIF. Before you decide on your entrée—will it be the beef or the shrimp?—the table offers its drink orders to a waitress with the requisite flair.

Naturally, like a manly man, you tell the waitress that you want a diet root beer. A guilty pleasure, perhaps, but so darn frothy and good. IBC, we think, is one of the great rewards of civilization. That and the rule of Law. (Jude Law.)

And around the room it goes: Bill savors a Pabst Blue Ribbon; Donnie wants a Coke; Len orders a Heineken; &c.

But don’t you know it: Someone just had to ruin the fun. Tony, that miserable sod, steps up to the plate and orders…a water. No lemon, no lime, no nothing. Just a darn water.

Now if you are anything like us, dear reader, this iritating order will make your head spin. If not literally, then at least figuratively. It ruins everything. Even that George Mason Final Four Trip. Everything.

After all, you were content with your drink—a bit sugary, perhaps, but delightful nonetheless. And then Tony—that bastard—had to make everybody feel bad.

“Should I have ordered a water too?” you think to yourself. “Gosh, I really don’t need all that sugar. And it’s pretty much a waste of $2.50. Drinks are always so overpriced. Will I die fat and penniless?”

Thus went your enjoyable dinner with the fellahs, destroyed by one man’s anchoritic drink order. No longer can you lay back and talk smack with the boys. No, sir: It’s time to fret about the waistline and pocketbook. Man, that guy’s such a jerk!

If he orders a salad, we may just kill him.