Can’t Be Rude

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I need to make a promise right here, right now to each of Edgar’s future dates as well as to the staff of any restaurant he frequents that I am endeavoring with all my might to civilize him at the table. 

Edgar eats with his whole body.  And for him, any interaction he has with food is elevated to an event.  But occasionally his overzealous eating translates to a colossal mess.   I do my best to suggest, cajole, reason; and sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. 

And tonight it didn’t.

I asked Edgar to simply eat his pizza . . . not eviscerate it, paste the table with its sauce, talk to it.

He told me that he had to talk to it because–and I quote–“It’s a talking pizza.  And if I didn’t talk to it that would be rude.  I can’t be rude.”

He can’t be rude, and I’m pretty sure I can’t win. 

Oh, well . . . at least it’s on record that I tried!

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