Maybe only Vietnam vets or maybe just vets in general will get this but I just found this on a Vietnam veteran forum and I thought it was frigging hilarious. 1966 is when I was drafted, which is coincidental to this funny story...
1966 saw the draft in full swing with me toasting buns at the "Twin Arches." Marty, a high school friend has a couple dozen meats on the griddle. With over a million sold, our mutually bleak futures have a dark cloud hanging over us two cooks. I wonder out loud, "Ya think we'll flip a million fuckin' burgers before the draft takes us?" "Fuck the draft!" Marty snaps. "Let's take that dude's offer and sign up for 4 years. We'll get that guaranteed station in Europe."
The noon rush is on, heat from the kitchen oppressive. The manager and his family are in line, getting waited on at the counter. Marty's flipping burgers while doubled over, trying to hide the fact, he's busting a gut. I have no clue what's so funny, until I see the softball size meat in his hand.
"Oh Shit! What's he doin'?" Marty straightens up, goes deadpan while he presents the disgusting jumbo ball of cow meat in deference to the manager, as though a gift to his king. With great pride he then displays the meat to the lunchtime throng crowding into the restaurant.
He has captured the attention of the entire establishment, all eyeballs are locked on the meatball. Marty, always the clown, has the girl at the french fries crossing her legs, desperately trying not to pee. The manager's face is fat, beet red and appears about to explode.
Marty, with an air of authority, raises his elbow high, a tuft of hair peeks out from the sweat stained armpit of his short sleeve white shirt. He carefully places the ball of meat into his armpit, clamps down firmly, then gives an extra press for good measure, and effect.
All have hushed as eyeballs follow the jumbo meat patty when it comes out of the armpit with a flair that can only be described as "very French", then slammed down to take its place alongside and over top of the little patties sizzling merrily along on the grill.
Pandemonium breaks out as the manager breaks his silence with a cracking high pitched scream. Customers are pushing and shoving for the doors. The two cooks bolt out the back door, jump into their cars and begin a road race up highway 99 to the Everett Army Recruiter's office. We take the deal.
1966 saw the draft in full swing with me toasting buns at the "Twin Arches." Marty, a high school friend has a couple dozen meats on the griddle. With over a million sold, our mutually bleak futures have a dark cloud hanging over us two cooks. I wonder out loud, "Ya think we'll flip a million fuckin' burgers before the draft takes us?" "Fuck the draft!" Marty snaps. "Let's take that dude's offer and sign up for 4 years. We'll get that guaranteed station in Europe."
The noon rush is on, heat from the kitchen oppressive. The manager and his family are in line, getting waited on at the counter. Marty's flipping burgers while doubled over, trying to hide the fact, he's busting a gut. I have no clue what's so funny, until I see the softball size meat in his hand.
"Oh Shit! What's he doin'?" Marty straightens up, goes deadpan while he presents the disgusting jumbo ball of cow meat in deference to the manager, as though a gift to his king. With great pride he then displays the meat to the lunchtime throng crowding into the restaurant.
He has captured the attention of the entire establishment, all eyeballs are locked on the meatball. Marty, always the clown, has the girl at the french fries crossing her legs, desperately trying not to pee. The manager's face is fat, beet red and appears about to explode.
Marty, with an air of authority, raises his elbow high, a tuft of hair peeks out from the sweat stained armpit of his short sleeve white shirt. He carefully places the ball of meat into his armpit, clamps down firmly, then gives an extra press for good measure, and effect.
All have hushed as eyeballs follow the jumbo meat patty when it comes out of the armpit with a flair that can only be described as "very French", then slammed down to take its place alongside and over top of the little patties sizzling merrily along on the grill.
Pandemonium breaks out as the manager breaks his silence with a cracking high pitched scream. Customers are pushing and shoving for the doors. The two cooks bolt out the back door, jump into their cars and begin a road race up highway 99 to the Everett Army Recruiter's office. We take the deal.