On my way from work directly to a semipro baseball game I began thinking of dinner. A ballpark dog, "beefy nachos" or one of those fancy micro-pizzas didn't sound all that good so I pulled into a supermarket with a good deli. I grabbed a loaf of their house French bread, two nice Beefsteak tomatoes, a small sweet Vidalia onion, some freshly sliced Swiss cheese, a small jar of deli mustard and one of those free weekly commie newspapers to act as a cutting board/plate.
Top of the second inning I began making my sandwich. I slit the loaf of French with my CS Counter Point XL. Then I sliced both toms plus the onion and spread mustard on the bread. A Karen to my left and one row ahead was glaring at me the whole time. She turned red with anger as I shingled the cheese, placed the tomato and onion and dressed everything with salt and pepper and just a kiss of Louisiana Hot Sauce. Finally she said "you're not supposed to bring outside food into the stadium!" -- a rule which few follow. One that's not well enforced. I ignored her and she kept up the yammering. Finally I gently told her to mind her own business. That upset Mr. Karen. Now they were both yapping at me as I was trying to finish final assembly and portioning of the sandwich.
They both stood up and the words finally came from Karen: "and your knife! It's illegal! It's too large! It's like a machete! It looks like a switchblade! Security will make you put it in your car!" By then others were beginning to notice. Finally I said "turn around, sit down and just shut the f--k up already!"
That's did it! A sorta purple-faced Karen yelled that she was going to "get security", and stomped off. She returned about 2 minutes later exclaiming "he's on his way!" Another two minutes and a reluctant security guy (the watch sergeant!) appears. An affable, bear of a man that I have long shared head nods with. He asked me what the problem was, as I was preparing to dig in.
Before I could say anything, Karen loudly debriefed him. "We are NOT to bring outside food into the stadium!" "His knife is the size of a sword! It's a switchblade! He was rude to me!" All I could really do is shake my head.
He asked if the knife laying next to the sandwich was an automatic? I said "no, no" and handed it (grip first) to him. He took a quick look, nodded his head and handed it back. He asked that I please not make anymore large sandos at the stadium. I agreed. He also asked what was on the sandwich? "Something real simple, Swiss, tomato, sweet onion with spicy mustard and some hot sauce." He nodded with interest and then turned his head to Karen who had been talking at him the entire time.
He explained that the no outside food rule was loosely enforced and that there was no problem with my knife. Both Karen and her husband then went into silent mode. I found a fresh square of paper towel in my kit and used it to wrap-up a man-sized segment of the sando. As the security guy began to depart, I deftly palmed him the snack. After perhaps a microsecond of refusal, he accepted the sandwich and thanked me.
He had to get back to his post. On the way out he smiled and said the sandwich "really hit the spot."
In the end I shouldn't have cursed at Karen and her husband. Otherwise it was just another amusing, knife-related experience.
Top of the second inning I began making my sandwich. I slit the loaf of French with my CS Counter Point XL. Then I sliced both toms plus the onion and spread mustard on the bread. A Karen to my left and one row ahead was glaring at me the whole time. She turned red with anger as I shingled the cheese, placed the tomato and onion and dressed everything with salt and pepper and just a kiss of Louisiana Hot Sauce. Finally she said "you're not supposed to bring outside food into the stadium!" -- a rule which few follow. One that's not well enforced. I ignored her and she kept up the yammering. Finally I gently told her to mind her own business. That upset Mr. Karen. Now they were both yapping at me as I was trying to finish final assembly and portioning of the sandwich.
They both stood up and the words finally came from Karen: "and your knife! It's illegal! It's too large! It's like a machete! It looks like a switchblade! Security will make you put it in your car!" By then others were beginning to notice. Finally I said "turn around, sit down and just shut the f--k up already!"
That's did it! A sorta purple-faced Karen yelled that she was going to "get security", and stomped off. She returned about 2 minutes later exclaiming "he's on his way!" Another two minutes and a reluctant security guy (the watch sergeant!) appears. An affable, bear of a man that I have long shared head nods with. He asked me what the problem was, as I was preparing to dig in.
Before I could say anything, Karen loudly debriefed him. "We are NOT to bring outside food into the stadium!" "His knife is the size of a sword! It's a switchblade! He was rude to me!" All I could really do is shake my head.
He asked if the knife laying next to the sandwich was an automatic? I said "no, no" and handed it (grip first) to him. He took a quick look, nodded his head and handed it back. He asked that I please not make anymore large sandos at the stadium. I agreed. He also asked what was on the sandwich? "Something real simple, Swiss, tomato, sweet onion with spicy mustard and some hot sauce." He nodded with interest and then turned his head to Karen who had been talking at him the entire time.
He explained that the no outside food rule was loosely enforced and that there was no problem with my knife. Both Karen and her husband then went into silent mode. I found a fresh square of paper towel in my kit and used it to wrap-up a man-sized segment of the sando. As the security guy began to depart, I deftly palmed him the snack. After perhaps a microsecond of refusal, he accepted the sandwich and thanked me.
He had to get back to his post. On the way out he smiled and said the sandwich "really hit the spot."
In the end I shouldn't have cursed at Karen and her husband. Otherwise it was just another amusing, knife-related experience.
Last edited:
