My Dad, West KY barbecue connoisseur, joined us on Friday night. After a few miles of walking, we settled on the Buzzard Bros tent and queued up in the block long line for the privilege of purchasing and eating seriously overcooked pig meat. After twenty minutes or so of waiting, we were a mere three people away from having our order taken when up wandered two Line Butters. They were a father-son team. Fixing their faces with the old we-are-just-a-couple-of-clueless-people-and-we-think-we'll-just-cut-on-in-line-because-we-feel-like-it, they shimmied nonchalantly, first near the line, then little by little, sort of IN the line just in front of us.
This set off a storm of mumbled bitching by the people directly behind us and the people behind them AND the people behind them. Of course, this IS Kentucky, which means confrontation is the worst thing that could possibly ever happen in the world (well, besides crunchy undercooked green beans without bacon grease like The Lord Baby Jesus intended). Nobody ever speaks up for themselves around these parts.
But that's where I come in. Because, no, I don't think me, the S-Man, and my Dad have just spent twenty minutes in line so these two yay-who's can get Buzzard Bros Barbecue after a mere five minute wait at our expense.
I tapped Mr. Older Line Butter on the back of his shoulder:
(Not turning around.)
(tapping a little harder)
(Finally turns around feigning addlepated confusion and fixing his eyes on a spot a couple of blocks away.)
Um, this would be the FRONT of the line? The BACK of the line is back there. (I crook a thumb indicating a spot, by now, about a quarter mile away.)
(Pulls his best Alzheimer's face and turns away to face the front of the line again)
(tapping his shoulder again)
Hey, Mister? See, you have to GO to the back of the line if you want barbecue. Because we didn't just wait in this twenty minute line so YOU can get barbecue.
(tapping Mr. Younger Line Butter on the shoulder)
That means you too, buddy.
(Turning around as though the previous conversation w/Mr. O.L.B. never happened)
There's another line over here. (Vaguely indicates a point somewhere off to the right)
I don't think so. Now let's move it on out there, buddy.
(Gives up and slinks away.)
(Still standing in nonexistent "other line")
No, see, understand, YOU are not getting barbecue before WE get barbecue.
(Slinks away too.)
At this point, everyone else in line near us begins to congratulate THEMSELVES on how they just weren't about to put up with those line butters, nosiree! Why, can you believe those two!? Thinking they could GET AWAY with such a thing. Hrrrmph!
And then we got our overcooked swine and all was right with the world.