My morning story, seriously

It happened again; as usual without warning. The vertigo makes it seem as though I’m looking up and falling back, but I’m really slumped over with my head half submerged in an open face sandwich. Last week salad, week before biscuits and gravy. The diner I frequent is rather used to my sudden face first kamakazi attacks upon appetisers and such. The staff and a few of the regulars usually hear the plate rattle and hoist me off my meal. Though on one occasion  an ill placed spoon was sent soaring from my usual booth in what I’m told was “a rather glorious arc that coulda been seen from across the street” according to the gentleman that woke me up. “Reckon a fella on a gallopin’ horse coulda seen a signal like that.” Today however I was early; I foolishly picked up a double shift and wound up at “Tuesday Tim’s Old Timey Diner” on a sunday morning; a day and time I can rarely catch a well made “Tuesy Tim’s” breakfast special. I’ve found in the south that a stranger is generally happier when YOU come too than your are yourself; and they sure have a fine way of describing it. And as usual those strangely comforting words seep in as the bits of sandwhich slipped from my snout. Another meal wasted. Another chipped tooth. You’d be suprised