I got a comical answer on the tip of my tongue, when Simmons drops his collar button on the floor, and, the same as all the other collar buttons in the world, they picked out the furtherest corners of the room to roll into. The poor boob gets as red as a four-alarm fire and goes crawlin' around the room tryin' to run them collar buttons down.
"It's too bad them buttons wasn't made of rubber," I says, thinkin' to pass the thing off. "They would of bounced right back in your hand, hey?"
He straightens up like he had stepped on a egg and runs his hands through his hair.
"A rubber collar button!" he mutters. "A rubber collar button! No—no—not rubber, but—"
"My Gawd!" cuts in Mrs. Simmons. "Will he ever stop it? Sit down and eat, folks, he's ravin' again! Here, Edgar, try some of this cold ham. It set our friends back a dollar and it ought to be good!"
"I'm—I'm sorry!" pipes Edgar, movin' away with that little, nervous step of his. "I couldn't eat a thing. I got a headache, I guess—I—excuse me, but I'll see you all again."
With that he blows.
"Ain't he the limit?" inquires Mrs. Simmons, grabbin' the choicest bits of that ham and goin' south with it.
"Mine's worse!" remarks the wife. "What would them men ever do without us?"
"Save money!" I says. "Slip me some of that cold chicken, will you?—I got a stomach, too!"