How it Feels to be Made of Wood

When my favorite person walking on this planet just so happens to casually stroll into Shmom Shmord, I cannot begin to convey my state of absolute petrification. This is about their 5th-ish visit here, where I have FINALLY bucked up the courage to say, "Good morning, I informed Joe Irish* you are here; he'll be with you shortly. May I get you something to drink while you wait?" 
Despite my profuse sweating and serious case of Redface (but good thing Shmom Shmord operates within a subzero climate, or else my sweating would be out of control and just...sloppy), I have made significant strides in progress here, budding from my 3rd encounter - as he was leaving, I sputtered out "huge fan!" like an ass. No seriously, just picture a newborn fawn or giraffe trying to stand up and walk for the first time, and it's learning to speak all at once, and...I don't know...Tarzan walks by. 
Well, that's me. Clumsy, bewildered, wet, and sputtering gibberish. 


And now I'm left freezing and will most likely suffer and die from hypothermia before 6PM today. 


To clarify, I am by no means obsessed with this man, Shmanthony Shmourdain, for any reason other than being an admiring and devoted fan of his work, from his show to his books to his commentaries and consults. Nope, no groupies here.
Only awe and respect.
I could go on and on and on about how he's making this world a better place, and how his show is changing how people should view their relationship with food, as well as other cultures and how fulfilling it must really be to get such a message across to so many people, whilst rinsed with wit and alcohol, but I won't.




*Alias bestowed to protect colleague's identity