by Matthew Sanborn Smith
Bert just figured the waiter had a southern accent. He didn’t think anything of it when he ordered the daily special for Vera and himself. When the order hit the table . . . well, that was something else, wasn’t it?
“What the hell is this?” Bert asked. Vera sat speechless and wide-eyed.
“It’s today’s special, sir,” the waiter said. “Buffalo wangs.” In the center of the table, between the diet cokes and napkins, lay three gigantic, sauce-covered penises in a red plastic paper-lined basket.
“You’re kidding me! You can’t expect us to eat this!”
“I’ll try one,” Vera said. She popped one end of a big hot wang into her mouth and worked her jaws vigorously. “Chewy. But good.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Bert said.
“Why don’t you try one, sir?” the waiter said.
“Thanks, but no amount of celery and blue cheese dressing is going to make an enormous bovine cock go down easily. I’ll try the quesadillas.”
Bert found Vera’s enthusiasm for her wangs disconcerting. By the time his food arrived, she had polished off the entire basket.
“Jeez!” he said. “I wish you liked mine that much.”
“Yours doesn’t taste like that,” she said, rubbing her belly.
On the way home, they stopped at the corner store and Bert picked up a bottle of hot sauce.