Rocketship to Mars

About the time you decide to wait for a friend, Michael, the much-desired engine mechanic and your closest friend walks past you in the hall.

"Say, Michael," you say, "have you had lunch?"

"What a great idea," Michael says as woman throw themselves at him, "a perfect way to break the day into two parts, much the way I would like to break my wife in two."

"Fighting again?"

"Not so much fighting as throwing punches," Michael explains as another girl ricochets off him and slams into the wall, head first.

The girls throwing themselves at Michael are upsetting to you. Not out of jealousy, but because the girls are so small, two to three years of age. And the only reason they are throwing themselves at him is because he always smells strongly of grocery-store-style-bought-in-one-gallon-milk-jugs-with-no-natural-flavor-but-pounds-of-sugar grape juice.

"You're smelling especially grapey today," you comment to him.

Michael shrugs, "My doctor's got me on some new medication. But, hey, enough about my condition; let's get some lunch."

Michael suggests a restaurant that is, quite frankly, out of your price range, but you agree since for quite a while you've suffered from an inferiority complex and have been trying to keep up with his extravagant lifestyle. Besides, the guy is loaded, and odds are that he'll pay for the entire spread if you ply him with enough liquor.

So, you go to the fancy restaurant, forgoing your usual egg salad sandwich with Fritos and warm Bosco. You have the "Deluxe" egg salad sandwich served open-faced on a croissant. They do not have Fritos but serve some spiced french fries which you won't touch because they are too "exotic." You drink a warmed chocolate liqeur and Michael drinks cognac from a wine glass made of white chocolate.

Do you stab Michael, the highly skilled engineer, right now?

Do you eat lunch peacefully, like the boring wimp, you are?