Many years ago there was a party, an afternoon cookout in the heat of the southern sun. Attendees turned up in their gingham dresses and madras shorts, boat shoes, and pearls. Children were warned to be on their best behavior and everyone played outside in the sweltering heat. Everyone brought a dish to share and the man of the house grilled hamburgers and hotdogs, as men do. The party was perfect. Titters of polite laughter and small talk wafted through the air as the ice clinked in the lemonade glasses. Everyone ate and they were as merry as possible. And then it happened...
Someone ate the last hotdog. You think I'm kidding? No, someone ate the last hotdog. It was as if the guests had discovered that the food was Soylent Green and they were next. The level of stress intensified. Tight smiles stretched across otherwise normal faces. Pupils dilated, breathing quickened, people began looking at their watches. Small talk became increasingly difficult. There was a platter filled with hamburgers and plenty of other food but the hotdogs were gone and this was simply unacceptable. It is utterly unheard of to invite people for a cookout and to run out of a single item! I mean really!
A reasonable interval passed and the guests determined that the time to retreat from this pauper's excuse for a party had arrived. Pleasantries were exchanged, air kisses, pats on the back, hand shakes. "See you soon" and "Thank you so much for coming" and "This was so lovely" and "Do come again."
Followed by 10 years of silence. Because someone ate the last hot dog.
Or so I've heard...
