His language goes from colorful to off-color to only words that rhyme with duck.
And you don't have to be at Earl's table to hear him. In fact, you don't have to be in Minneapolis to hear him. Blue hair is turning bluer. Salesmen are blushing. Women gasp. Men gasp. Then nobody gasps because everyone is silent.
Earl rocks back in his chair, just about to come forward and pound the table for emphasis and a refill. Nature phones in. Earl's gotta relieve himself. Right now. A little too loud, about the volume of a good p.a. system, he bellows, "Where's the toilet?"
A guy at the table next to him says, "The toilet's in your mouth."
Earl rocks forward. Hmm. He's pretty sure that's not the location he was looking for. He makes his way from the table, across the room, and over to the door with the large "M" and little plastic man on it.
While he's in there, he must be thinking, Maybe, just maybe, I was a touch louder than I should have been. Possibly, my language wasn't quite as delicate as it could have been. Perhaps, I was a vile pig.
Now, Earl really never meant to hurt anyone. Okay, maybe the players and the coaches and the umpires and most of major league baseball, but no real people. So, he feels bad. He better make amends.
He comes back into the dining room. On his way, he stops at the offended table. Not all of them. That would have taken all night. But at the one where the guy suggested that Earl's mouth only needed a handle in order to flush.
Earl looks at the people at the table with every ounce of sincerity he can muster. His voice is low and discreet. His manner is dignified. He leans over intimately and says, "I'm sorry. You lose a tough one and you can't get a table in the dining room and you have a few drinks and pretty soon the 'cock suckers' and 'mother fuckers' just come out."
