It’s Herbie Hancock. Duh!
As some of you may know, last week my wife and I had to sign a waiver to take a doggy-bag out of a London pub. At first, I truly thought it was a joke (dare I say, I waivered?). Then I thought I was imagining things, probably due to the no-more-than-three pints of Australian lager in my belly.
But when the server presented me the document and waited for my Herbie Hancock before granting us custody of the naughty chicken, I had to come to grips and accept that the whole scene was real and that I was not, unfortunately, on Candid Camera with Allen Funt.
A few nights removed from the Doggy-bag Left-over Incident (“DL Incident”), I have tried to think about what went through my head when I read, okay glanced at, the actual words on the waiver. I imagine that my mind had an internal conversation that went something like this:
Practical part of brain: Bloody hell, you have got to be ‘effing kidding me.
Realistic part of brain: Well you never know, right? I’m sure in the past a lawsuit related to a latent food borne bacteria cost the Pub’s investors a pretty pence. Alton Brown said that statistically speaking…
Practical part of brain, interrupting: You went to four years of law school to think like that and really, Realistic part of brain, you are going to try and cite to a host on the Food Network as precedent?
Realistic part of brain: Shit, reality rests. Man-that-we-control, please just sign the damn thing and stop talking to yourself.
|Where’s the spoon?
What really prompted me to get out of bed and write about the DL Incident was the stereotypes  that I started to formulate in my head as I tried to imagine what went through other peoples’ minds as they signed arguably frivolous waivers  :
A man from New Jersey might skip the contents of the page all-together and mumble “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” while signing Bruce Springsteen’s name. A Northern-Californian might roll his eyes, forcefully ink in the words of his astrological sign, look the server directly in the eye and say “this is hella-not-green” and then give the bag to the homeless Manchester United fan just outside the pub. Internationally, I imagine that a Canadian may think to themselves, “eh?-okay-eh,” while a Brit may tidy their monocle and politely say, “righteo cheers alright then yes indeed okay here we are fine then right then yes alright alrighty right, shall I summons my notary?”
For what it is worth, we never ate the damn piece of chicken and it is still collecting bacteria in our cute fridge. Birds are chirping and I need to get back to bed, but let me ask you: what happens if the waiver itself makes you sick?
 Stereotypes are dangerous…ly fun when you are trying to fall asleep and don’t take them too seriously.
 As an aside, it is usually a giggle that gets me out of bed to write stuff down, e.g., Sunday night I imagined God responding “because you have bad aim, numb-nuts,” when an advice-seeking archer asked him why he couldn’t hit his target.