Except this one time.
Late last week, The Boss and I went out to dinner as a late celebration of our four-year anniversary. I had a long day at work, and perhaps I wasn't thinking clearly. When our food arrived, I couldn't help but stare at what was placed in front of me:
I know that isn't the clearest picture, but am I crazy to see a swastika? Right there, formed out of delicious bacon, on top of my hamburger?
In the middle of the restaurant, I cried out, "Holy shit, there's a fucking swastika on my burger!"
The Boss, shocked, dropped her silverware on the table with a clatter. "What?"
"Right there. On my fucking burger. A swastika!"
"Oh my god, you're right!"
We sat there in silence, trying to stifle our laughter.
"I hope there aren't any Jew's around, lest they get offended," I said, not truly aware that there were other people sitting in booths around us.
The Boss glared at me and whispered harshly, "Keep your voice down!"
"I'm sorry... I just didn't know that I ordered the Anti-Semitism burger. I think I got the wrong plate. Wait, is Hitler here? Or Mel Gibson?" I looked around the restaurant.
In a fit of laughter, The Boss forces a mouthful of Pepsi up her nose.
"And the swastika is made out of bacon! That's another nail in the coffin! A swastika made out of a non-kosher food product forbidden by Jews!" I exclaimed.
A felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see our server, looking very serious.
"Sir, is there a problem with your food?" she asked with a grave look on her face.
"No, there's no problem. It's just... there's... well, look! At the bacon!" I stuttered, pointing at my plate.
Barely glancing at it, she said, "I see the resemblance, Sir, but I must ask you to keep your voice down. You're disturbing the other patrons." She glanced nervously at a family in the corner of the restaurant. "If you'd like, I can get you another burger without... the bacon."
"No, no... This one is fine. I'll be quiet."
The server smiles, and turns to The Boss. "How is everything with your food?"
"Fine. Just fine," The Boss said, her face turning a deep shade of embarrassed red.
"Glad to hear it. Enjoy your meal." The server turns and walks away.
The Boss and I sit in silence for a few moments. I'm looking down at my plate, trying hard not to smile. As I reach for the ketchup bottle near the salt and pepper shakers, The Boss clears her throat.
I look up, and I see The Boss staring at me, her arms folded across her chest. From her eyes came a look like cold, razor-sharp daggers that would have killed me if mere looks had the power to.
"Don't say another word. Just eat your fucking Nazi-burger."
And even though I felt bad for saying those politically incorrect and uncouth things, that burger was delicious.