How Does That Foot Taste?

One more quick Chicago story:

As we entered the Museum of Science and Industry, I walked over to the "Enter Here for Tickets" sign and started navigating the ropes to get up to the clerk, even though there was no one in line. The Jazzman, of course, ducked right under the rope and went straight to the clerk. As I was walking, I was reading the sign to see what our tickets would cost and whether the senior citizen discount began at age 60. It didn't; it was age 62.

The entry price for adults was $15 and for seniors, $14.

Jazzman had already handing the money to the clerk and was waiting for change when I walked up and said, "Oh well, we're not senior citizens yet. Aren't you glad we're not senior citizens?" I wondered why he gave me a Look. Then the clerk said to him, "That's $28, and here's $12 change," as he handed Jazz his change and the tickets.

Oops. He had asked for senior tickets, and the clerk had done what he had probably been instructed to do—don't argue or ask for proof of age.

(Well, at least I said it quietly. Maybe the clerk didn't hear me. Maybe.)

I laughed the whole way up the escalator into the exhibits. Jazz and I both have a tendency to put our feet in our mouths. Then we twist and shove to see if we can get them farther down our throats.

Trust me, they're not tasty. But the incidents are rather humorous in retrospect.