On fries

I was eating dinner with some folks I'd just met, who were the family members of my newest imaginary girlfriend.

In the middle of our meal--which goes without saying, was imaginarily marvellous--I was asked this question: "What kind of fries do you like?"

The simplicity of this question caught me off guard; but then I pondered for a moment; and this is what I told them:

"Well... It depends.

"If I'm looking to enjoy some finger-fries--by which I mean fries that one eats with their fingers--then I'm definitely a fan of the crinkle-cut. If, on the other hand, I'm looking to enjoy some fork-fries, then I prefer the shoestring. So, I guess I like both the crinkle-cut and the shoestring, but it all depends on the utensils at my disposal.

"I like my fries crunchy--a flaccid fry is most often unenjoyable for me; but one has to be careful with the shoestring here, because the shoestring is a fork-fry. If it's too crunchy, then the fork just breaks the fry in two, and that's just asking for trouble: I speak from experience when I say that a broken fry can shoot off that plate like a speeding bullet; and that's just asking for a fry in the eye. Now imagine that there's ketchup, salt, and pepper, on that fry...that's certainly going to hurt; and, if nothing else, it might stain your shirt too...

"Anyhoo, I hope that answered your question."

The person who'd asked me was my imaginary girlfriend's imaginary father. He reserved the following moment to stare at me, entirely bewildered it seemed. And then he turned to his daughter, pointed his fork at me, and said: "This man is mad. What on Earth are you meddling with him for?"

She bade us both a glance, and said: "Because he's mad; and he likes to talk to me whether I'm in his head or in his arms..."

Shortly thereafter, I was excused from the table and addressed by a man in a long white coat, who spoke to me like I was a child. I ignored the pansy, and but stared out my window, and sighed.