Oh, I know what you’re thinking: What advice can I — a man comfortably in his fourth decade — offer to one such as yourself, not even twenty years on this little green dirtball, and thus vastly more knowledgeable in the ways of this wicked, wicked world?
Never-the-less, do allow me to try.
I shall not attempt to advise you that, when using expectorant as a condiment upon a customers hamburger, one really shouldn’t go for the Deep Lung Hork. While it is a loud enough — not to say distinctive enough — noise to elicit giggles from your co-workers, only persons of the late-teens/early twenties age-group are cunning enough to recognise that noise as an indication that Things May Be Afoot.
Likewise, far be it for me to point out to you the tactical — nay, strategic — difficulties involved in Saying It With Saliva at a cook station fully open to the view of the cash registers. And the people at said cash register. I bow to your Youthful Treachery, sir.
In the same vein, only a naif would fail to understand that it is only the most wonderful of coincidences that the customer whose food you are so sublimely spicing is the same middle-aged man to suddenly point out of the window and exclaim that person, or persons, unknown are — and I quote, “Messing with your car, man!”
How a complete and total stranger would know which conveyance is yours, or to even care that it is being “messed with”, is a testament to your cunning, Young Sir, but bless this most naive of your elders for bringing this to your notice and allowing you to rush outside to interrupt the “messing with”.
No, the advice I offer this fine fall afternoon involves the simple white cotton handkerchief.
If you were to get into the habit of carrying one of these items on your person at all times, you would find it of remarkable utility: one could dust off a seating place, hand it to a damsel to allow her to blot tears, or even to blow ones nose — although it appears that you have that process well in hand, so to speak.
Or you might even be able to use it to staunch that crimson gush spewing from your afore-mentioned snot-locker like the Devil’s own fire hose.
Just some advice.
By-the-by, I was truly inspired by the way you pounded that middle-aged man’s knuckles with your face. You brilliantly displayed The Stuff Of Which You Are Made. Bravo, sir. Bravo.
Nothing but love,