When I Got Thrown Out of Dairy Queen

I was thirteen-years-old the first time I got thrown out of a Dairy Queen.

The manager came charging out from behind the counter like an angry drill sergeant.  He glared at Andy and me with an iron jaw and then threw a stiff thumb over his shoulder toward the door.

“Out!” he hissed.

“What!” Andy demanded (although it came out Wh-Wh-Wh-What!).  “What about them?” He motioned toward the trio of octogenarians—a balding, silver fox and his two blue-haired lady friends—seated two booths behind us.  They were stifling laughs with handfuls of tattered napkins.

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