"Foppotee".

A man walked into a coffee shop unaware that a book signing reception was in progress. Looking around, he recognized no one. Course he wasn’t from the area so why would he recognize anyone. The coffee shop was a-buzz with activity – people eating cheese and crackers, sipping wine, a violinist playing a cello in the corner (the cello player took sick), chit-chatting and – drinking coffee. In another corner there was a stately, middle-aged gentleman signing books. The author, the man presumed. The man walked up to the author and, noticing a few hundred books stacked on the table, grabbed one and paged through it.

"This your book?" asked the man.

 "Yes," confirmed the author. "Would you like to purchase one? I'd be happy to sign it for you."

"No thanks." Uncomfortable pause. “What’s your book about?” asked the man.

“Growing up in Cambridge, Wisconsin.” “Cambridge?

Never heard of it,” said the man.

“It’s near Madison,” said the author. He returns to signing books.

Odd, thought the man. He imagined anyone could write a book about their childhood, particularly if they grew up in an interesting place. But Cambridge, Wisconsin? Never heard of it.

The man stated, "Now...if you had written about your life growing up in Madison, I might have found that interesting." The author smiled. "But I didn't grow up in Madison. I grew up on Cambridge."

"Yes," said the man, "so you've said."

Madison would have been much better place to write about, the man thought to himself once again. The author asked the man, “If you'd like some wine or cheese or..."

“No thanks,” said the man. “Well - enjoy your visit,” the author said and returned to signing books.

The man nodded at the author - and stood there for a few seconds. “Foppotee,” said the man to the author.

“Excuse me?”

“Foppotee,” repeated the man.

“What does that mean?” asked the author.

The man stated firmly, “Foppotee.” He paused. “Foppotee, foppotah.”

The author sat there dumbfounded. He chose his next words carefully. “You’re a simple-minded person, aren’t you?”

The man stared at the author. It's not known whether the man was staring at the author or staring through him. It made no difference.

“Foppotee, foppotah.” Then the man turned, walked out of the coffee shop as quickly as he had entered it.

The author stared at the door for a few seconds then returned to signing his books. “Foppotee,” he muttered under his breath.