And it poured around us like a moat till no one could get us, and I was fine.

So we’re sitting at dinner, and I overhear a waiter on the other side of the restaurant telling his enraptured table a story about his mother’s dog getting carried off by an eagle, never to be seen again.

So I gasp and quickly get the attention of everyone at my own table, whispering, “Did you guys hear that?”

“Hear what?”

”That waiter just told his table about his mom’s dog getting kidnapped by an eagle!”

Which of course sets off a cacophony of boisterous (read: drunken) responses along the lines of “What?” and “No way!” and “You’re kidding!” and “How is that possible,” as everyone at my table turns around to stare at the people across the room and their now rockstar waiter.

I put my head in my hands, look over, and announce, “Why yes, we’re eavesdropping!” which gets no reaction whatsoever. Either they’re completely ignoring us (likely, given the fact that we had already succeeded in being somewhat obnoxious throughout the course of the evening), or they honestly were so engrossed in their waiter’s affections that they were not at all aware of the attention of all eight members of my party being focused entirely on them.

So eventually the waiter wishes them a good night, and at my mother’s request, comes over and tells us the tragic (read: hilarious) story. We thank him for indulging us, and he leaves.

His story, however, stayed with us, and we eventually segued into memories of that movie about those people in Australia or wherever, whose baby was stolen by dingoes. Which, in our somewhat inebriated state, also struck us as pretty damn hysterical.

At that point we decided to (finally) leave the restaurant, and on our way down the stairs and out the door, my brother and I, much to the puzzlement of the other patrons and restaurant staff, began a rousing back-and-forth rendition of:

“You got baby in my dingo!”

“You got dingo in my baby!”

Ah, yes. Good times.