Went out to dinner with Shootin' Buddy last night to a local restaurant; a sort of tavern-y place with a bar at the front and tables and booths in the back. It was fairly full, always a good sign, but we managed to get a table in the back corner. SB was sitting on the padded bench seat that ran along the wall, which meant he had, more or less, a seatmate not an arm's length away at the next table.
Said seatmate was well into that very friendly stage of drunkenness, and decided that maybe he recognized Shootin' Buddy. "Hey! I know you! Remember me?"
"Sure! You're... Steve!" (Not even close, BTW...) "It's me! Davey!"
And thus began the rambling narrative on the gentleman's Native American ancestry, his Vietnam War vet buddies, his spiritual guide, and which walking stick was best to use at the Feast of the Hunter's Moon, an event he earnestly wished we'd attend. Anyhow, as our entertainer's female companion finally spatulaed him off the seat and got him pointed towards the door, he turned and, with a little half-bow and his eyes squinted up like he was trying to remember the Gettysburg Address, very solemnly intoned "Na Mao Che Kim brunt puff ugh bargle watt. And that means 'I invite you to the Feast of the Hunter's Moon.'"
Rather than leave well enough alone, Shootin' Buddy (who has something of an ear for languages,) asked in all innocence "What language was that?"
"Huh?" blinked our floor show.
"What language? I mean, was it Miami? Shawnee?"
"It was... it was... Native American!"