breakin' rulez

Uncle Rick was is alwayws the more...outgoing one. So, there were are, sitting in an uber classy, stuck up, snobby people French resturant in the heart of Paris, and the unspeakable happens. We run out of bread. And, we're American's, so naturally our patience is low and our hunger is high, always. We agree that we'll wait until the waiter walks by again and my French speaking mother will ask if we can have just one more basket, and all will be well. Five minutes go by and our, well Uncle Rick's stomach is screeching. "Where's the waitor guys?" He asks. We remind him to be patient and we settle back into our causal dinnertime chit chat. Five more minutes pass. "Okay, this is ridiculous," he says. "I'll get the waitor over here." Various "Oh God"s and "Have mercy"s murmer throughout the table as all ten of our faces sink into hiding, as if that will help the unimaginable embarrassment that'll soon eat us alive. "Um, excuse me!" Uncle Rick raised his voice. Heads turned. Were we really going to be the typical fat ass, trashy American tourists pissing off all the stuck up, classy Frenchies? Yeah, yeah we were. "Excuse me? Waitor?" Uncle Rick continued. We looked as thuogh we'd spent the day on the beach, our faces were so red. Aunt Anne already began apologizing to neighboring tables. After what must have been the longest 15 seconds of my enitre life, a waitor appeared. Finally. "Um, Bonjour," Uncle Rick decided now was a good time to try out his French. "Uh, bread?" He picked up the basket, and spoke louder, as if louder english was equivelent to French. "We need more bread!" He said, like a frustrated traveller trying to speak to those people on the phone. That was a bad comaprison, but I don't know what they're called, so.

anyways, you get the picture, yeah?