Designated...Driver

As we enjoyed the company of our close friends from the north, chatting around the dinner table, laughing at some of the earlier years' silliness, we wonder do the others in those memories, cherish them as we do.  It seems one path leads to another and another, we could laugh and cry forever.

As we filled our midsections to the limit, conversations of the Fred's News old timers surface.  The "Brothers", Ray, Fred T., the last two still alive, Happy and George Phanuef, all part of our laughter.  Once a week all the old guys would head out to a different restaurant, gorge themselves, have a few drinks, heading back to Fred's News for their afternoon round table discussions of politics, money, gossip (worse then some of their female counterparts), and just a lot of bull crap.  They'd discuss their meal, thumbs up or thumbs down, plan and plot the next week's excursion.  Their only complaint, one of them needed to be the designated driver.  Trouble was, thye all wanted a few drinks.  As the light bulbs in their heads turned on..."let's find someone who doesn't drink"....Oops, Mr. Bill walks through the back door, "Hey Bill you wanna go to lunch next week, you can drive Happy's car?"  A big-ass "Pepere" car that could fit all the old farts, Bill kind of, sort of....agreed.

Mr. Bill's take on lunch...."they would search far and wide, wanting to get the most for their money."  The Egg-Nazi often questioning, "Why the hell do you order spaghetti and meatballs at a seafood place." Happy, never changing the dead-pan look on his face, "because I like it!"  The guys also talked, laughed, drank, flirted, like many old-farts do, but as the food arrived...an eerie silence emerged.  Eating a serious business, Mr. Bill, amazed, "they never spoke, they consumed, as if they were feeding machines." As the stories goes...during one of these feeding frenzies, silence is broken, someone passes wind....not a breeze, but a loud stiff, ugly gale.  Mr. Bill laughing uncontrollably, now realizes, he is the only one laughing, they are still shoveling in the vittles, at a disturbing pace.  Other patrons assuming, the Egg-Nazi's laughter can mean one thing only, he is the culprit.  Slightly embarrassed, he resumes the feeding frenzy as well, hoping others have yet to realize what has just occurred.  As the "wind" reaches other areas of the restaurant, Mr. Bill now realizes all eyes are on him.  "What else could I do?" he laments, "we finished the meal, paid and left."  As they reached the "Pepere car", the other members of the group burst into laughter recalling what had just occurred.  All wished they had a camera, the picture of Mr. Bill's face, as the fart aroma eeked into every corner of the establishment, would of been priceless.  Mr. Bill's first and last day as designated driver!