"Pass the tartar sauce," said Mike, "My fish sticks are getting cold."
"And you wouldn't want to eat cold fish sticks?" asked Roger.
George chimed in. "Mmmm. Only thing better than a hot, compacted wand of dust-mite-sized pieces of a less-than-desirable species of fish that's been plunged into a thick, doughy batter and then fried in old oil, would be--"
"PASS THE TARTAR SAUCE." Roger and George simultaneously reached for the small bowl of mayonnaise and sweet pickle relish; the unhappy result being a puddle of tartar sauce on the tablecloth, and none for Mike.
Mike blasted out of his chair and grabbed Roger around the throat. Roger flailed and sputtered.
George turned to the other nine guests at the dinner table and said, "That Mike. He can be a right tartar when he gets riled."