I get to tell my cheese crackers story! Thanks, emsmom!
When a much younger man, my money, scarce as it was, was too precious to spend on mundanities like food. I used to live off of cheese crackers and the like.
One night, doing some underage drinking at Moynihan's in Wormtown MA, I met a young lady whom I wished to get with. Hoping the right mix of chemicals would assist me in this undertaking, I suggested we smoke a joint, to which she agreed.
We popped out of the front door, and I took two steps to the left and lit up.
"Shouldn't we not smoke on Main Street?" the lovely lass inquired.
"Nah," I replied confidently. "I do this alla time."
At which point one of Worcester's finest pulls up. My heart takes a giant flop; I drop the joint and put my foot over it, and as the good officer steps out of his vehicle, I shoot my arms up into the air as if he had pulled some iron on me. The object of my affection finds this action irredeemably funny.
The officer is mighitily irritated by this whole scenario. "Put your arms down!" he snaps. He pushes my sneaker-clad foot off the joint (a big one, too, more's the luck) with his blucher, bends down to pick it up, and rips it open, scattering the precious vegetation to the four winds, all the while lecturing me as to the lack of respect for the police I was showing by smoking on Main Street.
He belatedly remembers to pat me down, no doubt recognizing me for the desperate criminal I surely am. My arms reflexively shoot up again (too much TV, no doubt) and he slaps at them. "Put your arms down, idiot!" he grumbles.
Then his paws discern an flat oblong shape in my front pocket, and his demeanor changes from annoyed to cop-wary.
"What's that in your pocket? Take it out, slow, slow!"
He has his hand on his weapon, and my knees are castanets. I reach into my pocket, withdraw the offending oblong, and offer it toward the bastion of law and order.
"Ch-ch-cheese crackers, officer," I quaver, the bright orange hue and familiar Lance logo glistening in the streetlight. My erstwhile paramour and I then burst into a fit of the giggles, having imbibed many tankards of grog amidst the convivial surroundings of the tavern.
The cop is speechless for a second, and then he spins on his heel and stalks disgustedly to his trusty gas-powered steed, flinging an imprecation or two from behind his massive blue-clad shoulder.
The young lady and I return to the bar and hoist a few more. Alas, my virility and insouciance had taken a major blow, and I return tome lady-less. The fact that I was more upset about losing my last joint than losing the fair maiden says a great deal as to what manner of blooming youth I was.
If you have made it this far, I commend you, and thanks for listening. It's not often I am reminded of that story, as it resides well behind the mists of time.
Your humble servant, essvee