I was having dinner at the restaurant where CG works a few days ago. About the middle of our meal, my subconscious pulls me away from my blackened tuna, crabcakes, creole veggies and salad to bring to my attention a conversation, err, monologue, going on at the table behind me. A deep male voice is intoning is sort of a rapid sing-song rhythm. I can only make out snippets, as it's not that loud.

"Unless by the name of Jesus... It's his promise to us... it says in his word..."

This goes on for a bit. I hear a matronly female voice adding an ocassional murmur of assent. I'm thinking to my self this guy's not too scintillating a dinner conversationalist, if he has to resort to reading born-again tracts to his friends.

But then I hear a young male voice making uncomfortable replies. like "Yes sir, I am a Christian..."

Finally, I turn around to see just what the hell is going on.

This guy is preaching to the waiter! His waiter, our waiter. Who is standing there, shifting from foot to foot, obviously unable to think of a decent way to get out of this, so he can get along with his job.

I suppose in theory I don't have a problem with people espousing their religious beliefs to others, free speech and the freedom to be an obnoxious wacko loon being part and parcel of our dear constitutional rights that I once swore to defend until death, if need be, an oath I took (and take) seriously.

But there's a right and a wrong way to go about things, and snaggin' a server on a busy weekend afternoon at his work, when he's got other folks to wait on, and he's clearly not in a position to tell your Bible-beating dumb ass to go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut were he of a mind to, without getting at the very least, stiffed on the tip, if not complained on to the management, is clearly not the right way to go.

I listened to this old man drone on. He was dressed severely in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, tall and gaunt, looking for all the world like an undertaker. His plump little Hallelujah chorus of a wife was all spiffy in her flowered dress and poofed-up, welded into a helmet hair. I listened until, as Popeye is wont to say, "That's all I can stands, and I can't stands no more."

Meanwhile, CG, who'd been blathering on her own self about something I don't recall (like the Connecticutt Yankee's Sandy, she can motor on solo until further notice) notices the storm clouds gathering on my face, snaps to what's happening, and reaches across the table to take my hand.

"Marcus, don't you say a thing!"

She knows me, and didn't want a scene at her job.

"All I was gonna do was turn around and tell him when he got done with that poor trapped kid, he could start in on me, 'cause I garan-goddam-tee I am the Devil Fucking Incarnate compared to that little itty-bitty baby sinner of a waiter, I've logged more hours drunk in whorehouses than that kid has in school, and maybe he'd like to debate theology with someone who's not a captive audience. I chew up Jesuits and pick my freakin' teeth with their bones. "

As that sentence went on, I tried to gradually up the volume to the point where old Ichabod behind me might could hear.

"Don't you dare."

(sigh)

Thankfully, about then, the impromtu sermon ended, and the couple left, no doubt congratulating themselves on having struck another blow for the Good and Righteous and earning a higher place in heaven. The kid ran around catching up on his tea glass refilling, etc., and finally made it back over to our table.

I told him he had a lot more patience than I did. He just shrugged and said the guy was a weirdo, and that they didn't tip worth a shit anyway.

This has got to be the sort of thing that drives my less insane Xian friends like Macker crazy. It screws it up for the more subtle, set the good Xian example method of conversion.

I guess that's the sort of overweening certainty you get when you've convinced yourself that you've got a T1 to the Truth soldered into your soul.