Archive for the ‘car full of pain’ Category
Top Gear Gets Me In Trouble
So Scout, my wife Abby, and myself are sitting in The Diner eating breakfast. It’s not exactly quiet, as the place is rather popular and serves very good food (hence why it was popular). As we wait for our food to arrive, Scout and I talk about an episode of Top Gear that we had been watching the previous. In particular, we were joking about this little bit of back-and-forth between Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond:
RH: Pray silence, now please, for the most breath-taking car we have had in our studio. It is the new Lamborghini Reventon.
JC: Re-bin-ton.
RH: It’s Re-ven-ton.
JC: No, no. Re-bin-ton.
RH: I can prove it. In there, it’s got a ‘V’, Re-ven-ton.
JC: No, I know it’s spelled with a ‘V’ but it is pronounced with a ‘B’.
RH: Why?
JC: Don’t know, they told us it’s ‘B’, Re-bin-ton.
***Snipped car specs***
JC: A couple of problems, one they’re only making twenty, only one’s coming Britain. The other thing is, £800,000.
RH: That is quite a lot.
JC: But with this you would get a lot of badge.
RH: Badge? Oh Va…Oh no! No!
JC: I think I got away with that!
As we talk about the finer points of this, one of the neighbouring tables overhears us, and a few of the patrons give quite uncomfortable looks. However, our food arrives and we dig in. Abby and Scout had the Infamous Eggs Benedict (another story altogether), and I had the French Toast, complete with Aunt Jemima syrup in a slightly leaky bottle.
While pouring the oozy substance, I end up with nearly as much on my hand as on my breakfast. So, doing the first thing that comes natural, I start to lick it off my hand. As I do so, I notice the previously disturbed table is now looking even more disturbed. Looking down at my hand, I realize that I’d been licking between my index and middle fingers, making them in to a ‘V’ shape. Then I realize what that must look like after our little discussion about ‘vreakfast’.
As my face goes red and I look for a napkin, an older lady from a table across the room saunters over, hands me a business card with a phone number scrawled in delicate handwriting on the back, winks, and mouths ‘Call me!’. Then she returns to her table.
I go redder still, mutter something about an appointment, leave my money on the table, kiss Abby goodbye, and then beat a hasty retreat from the building, carefully avoiding the gaze of two of the tables.
I don’t know if I can ever go back there again, or if I’ll ever be able to look at a Reventon without thinking of badges.
