Today, after work, M.F. and I were toodling along in the car and, in a dilatory fashion, trying to decide where to grab a bite to eat. Along the way, we were also having a sort of sporadic conversation about the joys of making love to women from the woman's perspective. Somewhere in there I suggested that we go to McDonald's so that M.F. could have a Big Mac, which is a sandwich she often finds rather tasty.
She has a rather odd way of eating them, however. For reasons of her own, she prefers not to eat the bun. Instead, she likes to pinch the Big Mac bun on one side so that the innards of the sandwich sort of squirt out of the other into her ravenous maw.
So we were driving along, each lost in our own thoughts. After a lengthy pause, and seemingly apropos of nothing that had been said in the previous 10 minutes, M.F. remarked to herself, "No. They're too messy, and they're too hard to eat."
To which I responded, "I'm sorry, but are we still talking about Big Macs?"
She has a rather odd way of eating them, however. For reasons of her own, she prefers not to eat the bun. Instead, she likes to pinch the Big Mac bun on one side so that the innards of the sandwich sort of squirt out of the other into her ravenous maw.
So we were driving along, each lost in our own thoughts. After a lengthy pause, and seemingly apropos of nothing that had been said in the previous 10 minutes, M.F. remarked to herself, "No. They're too messy, and they're too hard to eat."
To which I responded, "I'm sorry, but are we still talking about Big Macs?"
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