The Irish Spitball

We are sitting next to five spike-haired juvenile delinquents in an Irish Burger King. 

I’m squirting out my ketchup, and a straw wrapper flies over my right shoulder and lands on the table. Ok, sometimes I blow into one end of the straw and blow the other end off at somebody, and often times I think it’s funny.  Accordingly, I look over and laugh.  I think a little obnoxious is a little funny.

Then a few minutes later, I get hit in the head with something that can only be a spit ball. This is a lot obnoxious, and now I’m pissed, especially because I’m digging in to my BK Veggie Burger and it’s delicious.  I’m like a dog—don’t mess with me while I’m eating.  

I turn and growl, “Knock it offffff,” and then, like I have split personalities, smile vividly, remembering I’m essentially an ambassador for Irish-American relations.

A few minutes later, another one hits me ...

I turn around and say, “Are you kidding me? Stop that!” One of them, who looks like the leader of the porcupines, says, “He did it, he did it!” Some were giggling and the more angelic of the group looked nervous.

I said, “I don’t care who did it, just STOP!” Who taught these little monsters to shoot spit balls at people?

Meanwhile, my loving boyfriend, Finbar, is chomping away on his Three Pepper Angus Burger, not giving two shits that I’m being accosted by wayward youths.

So the next time it happens, I am furious.  My temper ignites.

“Don’t make me come over there because I WILL grab you and I WILL kill you,” I said and I meant it.  

I was planning my full-fledged chair stabbing attack and fortunately for them they left— with quite a pep in their step. There were cheers (in my head) from the rest of the diners.

“Fin,” I say, “would you have protected me and beaten the skinny little spiky mullet-headed fourteen year olds if I needed you to?”

Fin looks up from his burger and says, “Baby, you’re far scarier than I am.”

An hour later, before the movie, I find out there’s no butter for the movie popcorn in Ireland. I don’t care if Americans are fat—at least in America they let you put butter on your movie popcorn. I look down to sulk, longing for America, and right there, stuck in my shirt, is a gigantic, slimy spit ball.

Little shits.