As summer turns to fall and college girls go back to wearing sweatpants all day every day, an observant fellow such as myself can’t help but notice there’s an awful damn lot of campaigning on my TV. Now, I appreciate the American tradition of spirited political debate as much as the next person, but frankly I’m still a little burnt out from the last go round. It’s like Friday night we were partying in Grant Park, and now it’s Monday again and we have to go back to our miserable jobs at the American Democracy Factory (where there are no layoffs, just assholes). Frankly, the prospect of the election cycle climaxing in my living room once again this fall is not really why I pay for cable.
Well it was a tough few months for your boy, The Drizzle, but I made it out with minimally one bleeding ulcer. It’s funny how things change as you step out of the classroom for the last time. Life turns into that great old racist Disney movie, Song of the South. Except this time, me and Uncle Remus pop a couple greenies and get shit-faced at Remington’s.
Me and Uncle Remus
I missed out on a lot this semester, but I also learned some pretty valuable lessons. For instance, did you know Michael Jackson died? I was like, “Whoa.” That was a hit. I have a back order of snide comments to make about several news items that are way too late to be too soon, but still valuable lessons all the same. So without further adieu, children, I present Notable Quotables from The Drizzle.
Item Number 1: If you marry a successful, girl-next-door-sexy actress who just won the academy award AND you decide to adopt a brown baby from New Orleans with her…Don’t bend this girl over your coffin couch!
For supreme teetotalers like the people we here at the shack tend to hang (and imbibe with), St. Patrick’s Day weekend marks an annual event the likes of which your average liver simply shouldn’t be expected to put up with. This year was no exception; it was, in fact, exceptional. But even the most perfect binge-drinking-with-a-group-of-close-friends weekends is not without its blemishes. Ours came in the shape of an insolent little red crab.
I will grant that there were 11 of us present that night, and that we had no reservation. But we made it clear upon arrival that we understood those two facts and were more than accommodating to the notion of being seated at different tables as different parties. We ambled over to the bar and ordered a round of Noble Pils. And then another. And then two more. Tables for four had opened up only to be filled by couples who put their names in well after us. We didn’t make a scene, just continued ordering high priced crafty drafties from the bar and ogling the amazing looking seafood that kept passing by on trays bound for tables that, for whatever reason, the hostess still would not seat any of us at.
After an agonizing forty-five (45) minutes or so of waiting and drinking high volume beers on emptier and emptier stomachs, the hostess informed us in the sweetest voice ever that she was SO sorry, but their computers had just gone down and there was now no way they could seat any of us. Apparently, nobody who’s job it is to seat people at a restaurant ever lived before computers. People back in those barbaric days often lost eyes and digits fighting for seats near their friends at the Red Lobster. We should all remember this when we take it for granted that a reasonably intelligent human being ought to be able to seat two parties of four and one party of three without the help of a computer during the course of a full shift.
Sorry, no pictures here. Images of this place are only fit for shitty episodes of tv shows celebrating gross indulgence.
Until further notice, Boston’s Barking Crab is in the Shit Shack.