"'Pan, for one' five letters. Starts with an 's'," sputtered Everyman through a mouth -- and 'stache -- ful of non-concertrated, Florida Orange Juice, "You know this swill packs a price tag of $2.20 per shotglass?! Crimony! I 'spect OPEC is smearing their crude mitts over the juice industry too. I don't know. I don't know what to think any more. It's the friggin Greeks. Goddamn Athenians. Modern city, hah! HAH! HAH and f---ing HAH! Modern city... what's your 20, good friggin buddy?! Gimme the 411 you sandal-clad citizens, you bitches of history! YOu hOUnds, yoU spasMOdic MONKeYs!!! Release me from your footsteps of time you sick, twisted, classically castrated carnival barkers of Corinth!"

"Satyr." chimed in Lawyer as he launched a Horshackian effort to gain favor with the wait staff. "And in the future, if you're set upon spinning a whopper, keep it outta my ears, even if I've gone heavy on the Blue Curacao. Which I've not, let me make that clear. Now about this Späten Song..."

"Satyr?! I think it's skillet," snapped Everyman.

The waitress made her way to the table. Everyman was immediately taken with her. She was a compact dynamo, a dark-haired beauty. He could smell her coco-butter battered skin even through the steady stream of pepper spray she was dispensing into his face. While Everyman's sinuses were slowly being melted into magma, Lawyer ordered.

"Let's see... the Chicken Cordon Bleuish-Green with a side of mono-sodium glutamated homefries. And a French onion soup hold the onions, cheese and broth. Why not? I'm not getting to the Späten Song tale anytime soon if he insists upon derailing progress with his australopithecine savoir vivre."

"Ignore the parlor tricks of this two-bit mentalist," gargled Everyman, leaning back smugly (up until the point that he almost tipped over backwards and he gets that split-second look of terror, y'know... I'm sorry, let's continue). He was in charge, and bleeding profusely from his nose and right eye.

"I bet you go in for them smoothies, ain't ya?" he slurred. His swollen tongue was hanging out of his mouth like a fleshy, pink cigar (a La Plata Royal Wilshire, to be exact. Honduran, Dominican and Ecuadorian tobaccos wrapped in smoked deli meat). "I figure it like this, funny face: It's 20 hours and half of another, it's you, it's me. Now, look into my eyes. Eye, that is... well, my left, the good one. Focus that cold, hard glare right here, dreamboat. I'm picking you a flavor."

His left eye rolled back into his head. His right eye dropped out and bounced around considerably before he gave it a one-hand snag. He removed his Incredible Hulk ascot and jauntily wrapped his errant ball in it.

With the style of a Sears and Roebuck catalog, and the throaty rumble of a Great Cat, he intoned, "Polynesian Passionflower. Or is it a Sexy Samoan? You'll excuse me, as I don't have their lurid product line stapled to the inside of my skull. Yo, check it: we mosey on up to the counter... 'Juicetender, let's high-step it son.' Fence me your finest Tiki Touch-Me. Blend me your boldest Strawberry Dryhump!' Hey, I'm not afraid to order their racy refreshments. Sugar, we shall straw upon solid foods pulverized into pulpy fluids!"

"I... I, uh, tend toward the coffee and the puff pastry, in truth..." she stammered, clearly stunned by the intoxicating frenzy of manhood that bludgeoned her with a sordid rainbow of randily monikered mulch-made mixtures.

[At this point the author wants to make clear that he is not only paraphrasing -- quotation marks be damned -- but he is, in fact lying. This blatant fabrication is justified by his total lack of remorse, or real life, to use in the place of this rich, vibrant, unnervingly explicit fantasy]

"What time did you say...? I was lost in your web of wonder!" sighed the svelte and leggy gazelle of woman (who was no longer a compact dynamo. We'll keep the dark hair... for now. Not that there is anything wrong with the compact dynamo build, in fact the author is rather predisposed to the petite and curvy, however, taking into consideration the general populace and buckling to the perceived preference of that demographic, our waitress friend is now nearly 72 inches of sleek womanity.

[Where are we? Oh, yeah. Everyman wants to take her to smoothies, etc. She prefers coffee but is nonetheless intrigued, yadda, yadda, yadda... alright. Let's go]

Everyman put his finger directly up her nose while aiming for her lips with his temporarily peppered depth perception.

"For the sake of not forsaking the communication of hour (in the event that I had not made clear my hourly intentions), regardless of desired, and/or required, ingestible, let me be opaque not a moment more in my conveyance of a targeted time for us to make a personal appearance at a defined locale, in which (not that it matters) both parties are able to obtain their product of choice."

She looked at him like someone who was looking for a light rain and received a meteor shower.

"It seems I've forgotten my inital focus which was put unto you with no more adieu, the time of intended arrival (and again this really bears no reflection on what type of comestible is to be partaken in by either party)."

"Time!" said she. Ahhh, the blush was off the rose and things were getting thorny.

"Well, I am ashamed." thundered Everyman. "I would like to display, forthwith, an hour of the clock at which I propose we set and chatter like apes about a variety of topic in an ingratiating manner. I must stress that this activity IN NO WAY shall be affected by the form of potage, or potated former firm and fruity-fleshed objects, that are to be introduced into our respective body cavities, beyond the natural/unnatural chemical reactions that these elixirs cause. And having qualified that treatise, I will now express to you, the projected instant of interaction, and I should restate that whatsoever nourishment we invest in would bear no consequence on our intended purpose. That said, I will see you at the appointed hour that I am about to tell you directly following this sentence that I am currently unraveling in to prepare you to receive the scheduled appointment. 8:30. There it is! Perhaps the anticipation overwhelmed the arrival, put now it can be told, or (in point of fact) has been told. Please respond at this time with any concerns regarding the communication of this clock position and/or complications that you perceive as arising as a direct result of the implications in my stating this time at which I propose we meet."

"It's too late," Lawyer said with a hush, upon approaching his boon buddy, "She's gone. There was nothing you could have done. That is, besides shutting your yapper. Holy mother of pearl! It's good thing you didn't kill us all."

Everyman, ashamed, fell silent. But not for lack of trying. He had been gagged, thrown into a burlap sack and locked in the trunk of Lawyer's car. Sometimes... it just hurts too much.

A young (fictional) girl died because Lawyer opted to not intercede on her behalf. How would you have handled that situation? Would you have sat back and watched the tragic scene unfold as Lawyer did? Would you have been a man (even if you are a female) and put a halt to Everyman's deadly (yet uncontrollable, so it's not really his fault) conversation? Would you have just rolled over and allowed Everyman to turn the tables on you in the activity section as Lawyer has here? For fun, write a letter to your Congressman requesting that Lawyer be disbarred. If you don't know what "disbarred" is, ask someone who cares.