Dave O's labyrinthine sentence
We are sitting around wondering what to cook for dinner when the wife suggests we eat out, which is always her suggestion since she does most of the cooking, but I really didn’t have any suggestions—other than for her to get up and fix something, which I wisely didn’t voice—so we load up our four kids into the family car and head to Fuddruckers, a fancy burger joint, arriving just in time for the dinner rush, adding to the chaos that ensued as our family took our tables after ordering food and picking up a gallon of fry sauce, which my son began drinking with a straw, as my youngest daughter blew out her diaper—this always happens when we leave the diaper bag in the car—so I escape to the freedom of outside car for a few minutes, arriving back inside just as my three-year-old son begins to feel ill from drinking half a gallon of fry sauce, forcing me to escort him to the bathroom, where he sticks his hand into the urinal (requiring multiple scrubbings and skin removal prior to being declared clean), retuning just in time to see my oldest daughter attempting to toss her jacket across the table (falling far short of the mark) knocking over five glasses full of soda, showering everyone at our table with stickiness, catching my son drinking more fry sauce out of the corner of my eye while cleaning up soda, buzzer buzzing beating us over the head with the fact our food is sitting on the counter waiting for pickup, dashing to the counter, turning around just in time to hear my wife exclaiming “there he blows” as my son vomits across the soda saturated table, creating a chain reaction of dry heaves from the other kids. And this is why we don’t eat out.
