A couple of weekends ago I found myself at Bob Evans with a group of friends. I am quite fond of Mr. Evans' fabulous restaurant, eating there every Tuesday for lunch. Any place that serves breakfast all day and has bottomless hot cocoa earns major points in my book. I bet you didn't know that Bob Evans was friends with Colonel Sanders, did you? This is what I'm here for, folks, to disseminate to the masses.

Now obviously this wouldn't make a particularly interesting post if nothing happened during our visit. That is to say, if I decided to blog today and came up with nothing more than, "Went to Bob Evans this past weekend; enjoyed a lovely short stack," how would you guys respond? I would imagine you'd all just slowly walk away, heads bowed, kicking at the dirt as you shuffle your feet, disappointed and wondering where the magic went. Well, don't worry, there is a punch line. Wait for it....

As our merry band of hungry friends approached the hostess, one of us spied an unusually dressed patron sitting in the restaurant. You might be thinking to yourself that it was probably not that unusual, perhaps a priest, or a male cheerleader, or Gallagher-esque chap in rainbow suspenders. Oh heavens, no, it was much more interesting than that. Sitting at a table near the wall with a few friends was none other than a living, breathing, Klingon. You heard me. Largest one I've ever seen--in person at least.

Actually, it's the only one I've ever seen in person. But that doesn't take away from his grandeur.

When asked, the hostess informed us that there was some type of convention going on at the hotel across the street, and that none other than George Takei, Mr. Sulu, had enjoyed his breakfast there that morning. Oh, my! To think, the captain of the U.S.S. Excelsior was enjoying the Rise & Shine or the Crack of Dawn maybe twelve hours before I walked in that door. I won't lie, I tingled a little.

We were seated and thankfully I had an excellent view of the lone Klingon in the joint. I studied him meticulously. He was one of the hairiest beings I've ever seen, like a nerdy Big Foot. And he was large. Seriously, his arms looked like stove pipes wrapped in beaver pelts. The getup was relatively complete, with the silver vest and brow ridges of a Next Generation style Klingon (for those that don't know, they looked quite different in the original series). I didn't see a bat'leth, but he may have left it out in his mom's Yugo, I don't know. I'm kidding, I'm kidding.

He wouldn't have fit in a Yugo.

A friend of mine asked if I knew how to speak any Klingon, being the resident Star Trek nerd in the bunch. Unfortunately, I could only think of two words: "Qapla'", which either means "success" or "pass me another cinnamon roll" (I'm betting on the former), and "petaQ" which is an insult that is likely to result in the insultee ripping your arms out of their sockets. Since I like my arms just the way they are, I decided not to temp fate. As we ate I revealed to my comrades that I used to be able to count to ten, but now can only remember up to five: wa', cha', wej, loS, vagh. I learned this as a preteen from an audio cassette called, I shit you not, "Conversational Klingon" with Michael Dorn (Lt. Worf). Before you mock me, my Grandmother got it for me for either Christmas or my birthday and it was, in fact, awesome. So shut the hell up.

I continued to observe our friend from Qo'noS, all the while sprinkling in random useless Star Trek facts that seemed relevant to the situation, much to the chagrin of my pal sitting across from me. A good friend is one who indulges your geeky interests without letting on too much that it's boring them to tears. I wondered about this Klingon. What family did he belong to? House of Duras? Mogh? Pancakes? And what kind of things might he order at an establishment such as Bob Evans? I'm pretty sure they didn't have any Gagh on hand, and Bloodwine is hard to come by in these parts. He must have been awfully thirsty!

As it turns out, he was. Fortunately, iced tea will do in a pinch, apparently. Who knew?

Okay, okay, by now you've probably guessed that I have a deep love for Gene Roddenberry's "Wagon Train to the stars." You probably won't believe it, but I actually carry a Star Trek credit card in my wallet. It drives the ladies wild, especially when I quote all 285 Ferengi Rules of Acquisition. Rowrrrrrr. Actually, it does get a great many reactions when I charge with it, from the hesitant, to the curious, to the genuinely envious. This can sometime be a bit uncomfortable.

I was at the video store once picking up a few things (a gift basket of movie essentials for my sister's birthday, if you must know). I placed a handful of popcorn and candy down on the counter, along with a nice little gift card, and reached for my wallet. The guy behind the counter was in his late twenties or early thirties, relatively clean, and not heavy but certainly not well-acquainted with any type of exercise equipment. He vocally expressed surprise at the amount of junk food I was buying (probably cause I got no movie to go with it), and although I wasn't in a bad mood, I certainly wasn't willing to have a video store clerk give me shit about my choice in refreshments. I felt the need to explain, though, and indicated I was putting together a gift basket and did not intend on eating it all on the way home, as it were (I had to throw a joke in, that's my way). He wrung it up and that's when the magic happened. I produced my credit card and his eyes sort of lit up. He said something like, "Ahh, Star Trek," looked up, and made the Vulcan "live long and prosper" gesture with his left hand. I wasn't really sure what to say, and considering the fact he had just cracked on my purchase, I certainly wasn't about to signal back and spout off something like "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations" or "The good of the many outweighs the good of the few, or the one." I think I sort of smiled politely (and slightly uncomfortably), hoping to God he wouldn't start speaking in his own version of Bajoran or trying to share his erotic fan fiction with me. I vowed that if the words "Resistance is futile" came out of his mouth I would wallop him with an oversized box of Milk Duds and then hightail it out of there. Fortunately the transaction completed without incident.

Back at Bob Evans, the Klingon and his crew (only one of which was in costume and it was nothing out of the Star Trek universe that I recognized) were finishing up their meal. In spite of the potential for monetary gain from my friends in exchange for me conversing with this Son of Kahless, I decided I didn't want to cross that boundary of weirdness, at least not in a public place. Still, I was envious of the fellow for having the courage to dress up like that and mingle with us common folk. I've never been to a Star Trek convention (the very idea intimidates me), but I should go some day, I'd probably really enjoy the experience. If it's anything like what is portrayed in the documentary Trekkies (a must see for fans and non-fans alike), it would be worth going for the spectacle itself.

As the meal closed, the Klingon had the good graces to clean up after himself. In a move as memorable as himself, he grabbed a fork from the table and proceeded to comb his ample moustache and goatee with it. Classic.

And so, Mr. Klingon At Bob Evans Enjoying Some Pancakes And A Refreshing Iced Tea, I say to you: Qapla! Without you, this blog space would have been empty today.

Tags: Geek, Humor, Life, Star Trek