A jovial obese guy walks in to our pizza place.
Guy: You guys sell wings?
Us: No, sorry, we don't.
Guy: Man...you guys know anywhere nearby I can get them?
Manager: No, but in Fancy Associated Restaurant we have chicken tenders.
Guy: Chicken....tenders? No. No I don't think so.
A person who works in the back whose teeth look like whittled scrimshaw more than something that should grow from a gum spends the next 3 minutes trying to talk to the guy about how you can't have anything else feed the wing desire except for wings themselves.
We run an excellent establishment. Like a well oiled machine.
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