Legshot/Paradise Lost

Posted: February 11, 2008 in Uncategorized

Ahhhh, family time. It goes without saying that spending time with your loved ones tends to stoke the creative fire, normally at the expense of those that are closest to you. As I dined at a local establishment this evening, I found that my verbal daggers are not directed at those in my family, but rather at those ancillary characters and places that breeze by me unnoticed on most occasions. Perhaps because I am feeling a bit frisky these evening, no critical stone has remained unturned on this chilly (fucking cold) February evening.

I do not, as you can imagine, live the “street” life. I am, for lack of a better word, a cracker. I am just a normal white guy, living a normal white guy life. I live in the suburbs with my dogs and my plants and my car. My hat is on straight and most of my clothes fit. That aside, I do not have a problem with those that choose a different road down the fashion highway, as I understand the need for individuality. If you choose to wear your pants around your ankles and wear a belt simply for aesthetic purposes, by all means. If you choose to wear clothing that Nell Carter and Carnie Wilson (before the surgery of course) could fit into with 17 midgets and 11 goats, go for it. However, I do not understand one aspect about that whole “look.”

The limp…what is with the limp? I saw a gentleman walking this evening, wearing the aforementioned attire, walking with a severe limp. I wanted to ask this gentleman if he needed an ambulance. Did he just get shot in the leg? Did all his friends just get shot? Does he have a prosthetic or wooden leg I just didn’t see? Or is the bagginess in his drawers, perhaps, a deuce that has weaseled out and is now residing at the base of his undies, and he is walking gingerly so it doesn’t squirt out onto the floor? Or, and probably the most likely of scenarios, is walking with a limp some sort of status symbol…something to do with the “street” look and “street” life that a normal cracker such as myself couldn’t possibly understand? I am utterly baffled, and quite honestly, a little worried. I think he might need a doctor. Maybe he doesn’t have insurance.

On to the establishment. Out of courtesy to Jimmy Buffet, I will not name the establishment, only to say that it revolves around patties of beef, covered in a dairy product in some sort of Edenesque (another new word, mine) setting. This is not one of my favorite places in the first place, but sometimes you just have to grin and bear for the sake of the greater (family) good (fight avoidance). Of course, with a large party, 20 minutes of waiting turns into 60 minutes of waiting. I did my best to not let this gnaw at my intestines like a tapeworm and just ignored the fact that they overpromised and under delivered. After we are settled, food gets ordered and the fun begins…

Let me tell you that this establishment must be a fan of Kraft related products (kickbacks?). So, first up, “spicy queso and chips.” Sounds promising. I like spicy. I like queso (cheese for all you gringos). And it just so happens I enjoy chips. The presentation is okay when it arrives (finally), but the presentation is where the goodness ends. Any promise of an assault on the taste buds gets flushed as quickly as a prom night dumpster baby (thanks Seth). Upon dipping the spoon into this concotion, you quickly realize that the “queso” is nothing more than Cheese Whiz, most likely microwaved, mixed with Pace Picante Sauce. Dipping the chip into and placing said dipped chip into your mouth, you are immediately reminded of movie theater “nachos,” and I expected the lights to drop and the feature to begin at anytime. The salsa provided with the “queso” is also Pace Picante Sauce (New York City, get a rope). Bummer.

The main course arrives, and the taste is pretty standard, with a few exceptions. One of the young pups in the group ordered mac and cheese off the kiddies menu. This mac and cheese must have been an original recipe…for Kraft. In addition, one of the side dishes was nothing more than chicken flavor Rice-a-Roni. How, might you ask, would I know this? Well, as a young bachelor, such dishes were cheap and easy to make, and considering my culinary skills were in their infancy, Rice-a-Roni was always a staple in my hovel. Not to mention, I mean, come on, it’s the San Francisco treat, and well, the flavor can’t be beat.

A plagiarism of taste is what this turned out to be. Unoriginal in the recipes and decidedly disgusting in the delivery of pasta aisle rip offs. If I could vomit and get my money back, I most certainly would. But alas, I will just have to settle for depositing the byproducts of digestion into an envelope and sending them a letter of my displeasure. I need to take a shower…the smell of processed food is seaping out my pores. I feel so used and dirty, like Paris Hilton after a weekend in Vegas.

Oh it’s nausea, oh nausea and we’re gone.



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