Thanks, boss.

Here’s the set up: Cheryl, Beth and I go to Olive Garden with Memmay and Peppay (I promise not to start in on the French slang thing again). The disabled parking spaces in front of the restaurant are full so Memmay drops us off so she can drive around looking for a disabled spot in the next lot over (don’t get me started).
Here’s what happened next: Two groups arrive at the front door at the same time, ours and group from the set of just about any hip MTV show. Cheryl bursts through the door to get our names in first. Feeling the need to show some civility, I hold the door open for Kool and the gang. The last guy through the door is walking with his knees wide; either because of a lot of time spent out on the range, or so his pants won’t fall down. As he walks past, he says to me (through a bushy goatee) “thanks boss”. I feel a tingle in the air… as if some cool has been bestowed upon me. I hurry to catch up with my party, a strut in my step from the recent transfer of cool. (Dear readers: please excuse our sarcasm.)