Leech Your Children Well

Once again, it is time to take a peek into the sordid world of Farmer H's table habits.

I'm not talking about the clicking of his jaw when he chews, a sound that will drive me bat-poop crazy upon our retirement, when it's just the two of us left in the Mansion. The clicking that might as well be the ticking of a telltale heart, so unable to ignore that I should desire to wrest the jawbones from under the skin of Farmer H and club him until he only quietly gums his food.

I'm not talking about his penchant for licking his fingers, especially after eating chicken or BBQ, a licking so thorough that he makes sure to suck the very marrow from his own thumb bones, until he makes that satisfying POP when the suction breaks.

I'm not even talking about the time Farmer H sat at the railing of the "outdoor" inside dining area of a casino, mere inches away from gamblers walking to and fro, and upended a bag of potato chips to get every last crumb.

Nope. I'm talking about Farmer H's habit of commandeering the foodstuffs of others simply because he wants them. It all started when I first met Farmer H, serving up a bountiful dinner for his two boys and stepson on a glass platter in his one-bedroom apartment across the parking lot from my townhouse. A package of boiled hot dogs. 8-count, for four guys. Sure, the boys were 5-10 years old. But they still had to eat. Perhaps there were buns, perhaps not. I do not recall. But I remember the 8 hot dogs on the plate in the middle of the table, where each guy ate a dog, then three guys ate another, and the littlest guy went to reach for his other dog and IT WAS SNATCHED UP BY FARMER H!

Same thing happened when we took the two boys to Pizza Inn before it went out of business, which is shocking, I think, since we frequented that place every other weekend for a large pizza and large order of garlic cheese bread. Once again, the littlest guy came up short on the cheese-bread end. All he could do was sigh. But I'll tell you what. That experience made him stronger. He learned to eat fast. And vowed to become a soldier. Kind of a success story, like that boy named Sue.

Farmer H's latest transgression, a double, came Saturday evening after we visited my mom in the hospital. We popped into Imo's pizza for the medium pizza/house salad special. The Pony is not a fan of Imo's, much like my work colleague, Mrs. Not-A-Cook, who likens it to Velveeta on cardboard. So we always get him an order of breadsticks, and he sometimes likes some cheese out of the salad on a saltine cracker while he waits for the breadsticks.

Farmer H worked his magic and charmed the counter girl out of the house salad and into two salad bar bowls. I'm sure she knew that was a mistake the minute she saw us loading up our bowls. I'm not a big lettuce fan (TAKE NOTE, TACO BELL!), and put in just a few sprigs, then filled it with mushrooms, black olives, and cheese. I even put some cheese on top of the ranch dressing, so The Pony could have some to go with the two packs of saltines I brought him. I kept one pack for myself, for when I got lower in the salad and wanted to scoop the mushrooms stuck to the side of the bowl. Au contraire. As I was chowing down on my custom-made salad, a giant paw reached across the table and snared my saltines. Before I could shout "WTF!" my crackers were crunched and sliding down Farmer H's esophagus.

"Why did you do that? Those were MY crackers!"

Farmer H frowned like he does when he wants to quiet me down so people in public won't notice he's up to something, and form a mob with pitchforks and flaming torches. He sighed heavily, got up from the table, took the three steps to the salad bar, grabbed FIVE packs of saltines, and set them down by my salad bowl. Again, he frowned. Like I was the one in the wrong. "There. That wasn't hard. I don't know why you're making a big deal."

"If that wasn't hard, why didn't you get up and get your own crackers?"

Farmer H's answer was to reach to his left with that same giant paw and grab the last of The Pony's four breadsticks. The Pony looked on in horror. "Um. Really? That's the only thing I got."

"You put his breadstick back. That's all he's eating."

"Fine. I didn't have any. I thought I'd try one."

"You should have ordered more."

"I forgot to order those. I had to do it after I already paid."

"We always get him his own order of breadsticks. I don't know what your deal is."

I guess we'll never know, because Farmer H had no reply.
I think he was planning his next heist.