JAY AND SILENT BOB
BRITISH COLUMBIA, Canada: By lunch, Edward's vision recovers. I'm caffeinated We're even speaking.
"Greasy spoon," I chirp, pulling off the road. "Want a hamburger?"
He accepts the peace offering, but makes a token protest. "You can't eat anything here."
"Coffee, my friend, there's always evil, black, spoon-melting drip coffee and french fries with tomato ketchup a vegetable serving, according to the Reagan administration."
As I'm ordering our decadal dose of cholesterol, my friend wanders towards the ice cream cooler. The peevish waitress asks: "What does the other guy want to drink?"
OK, OK, I am wearing my peaky hat, a fleece snowboarding number that somehow transforms me into Jason Mewes from Kevin Smith's New Jersey Trilogy.
But the specs kill the effect, I swear.