April 26, 2007

-- We went to the Old Country Buffet last night. This is a significant development, because Toney and both our kids claim to hate the place. It’s long been my contention, however, that they don’t really hate the restaurant itself, they hate the other patrons. And that’s not really fair. 

It’s like people who supposedly dislike Lynyrd Skynyrd. I’m convinced it’s almost always because a significant percentage of the band’s fans are shirtless, Old Milwaukee-hoisting, rebel-yellin’ rednecks. And that doesn’t have anything to do with the songs, does it? I submit that it does not.  

Oh sure, the Old Country Buffet draws hillbillies out of their hollers, and there’s generally people there with catastrophic skin conditions, and botched grafts, and the like. But that’s what the sneeze guards are for, right? And just because there might be a mountain man seated beside us with 6 ounces of Thousand Island dressing in his Robert E. Lee beard… how does that affect us?

The Secrets especially have dug their heels in about the place, and we’ve had actual arguments about it in the past. One time we were driving to meet Toney at a Chinese restaurant both boys love, and I pretended to be talking to their mother on my cell phone – and changing the plan. 

I acted like Toney and I had decided at the last minute to go to the Buffet instead, and nothing good came from that, nothing at all. I think somebody eventually started crying, everyone was mad, and I ended up calling my sons Niles and Frasier.

But last night I floated the idea, and there was surprisingly little resistance. So I seized the opportunity, and we went.

It cost $33 for admission into the Gravy Kingdom , which is pretty damn steep, I think. But whatever. Since I only get to go there once every six months or so, no use focusing on the negative.

One thing you’ll notice about those kinds of places: the Keeper of the Meats is the anchor position. Everything revolves around that one person. They’re in place to make the customer believe they’re receiving hand-carved freshly-prepared ham, turkey, or steak, just like in fancy restaurants on TV shows.  

But, of course, their true role is to limit the consumption of the Expensive Stuff. Truly accomplished keepers can make a person feel like a disgraceful glutton gently, and discourage most folks from asking for more. The Keepers of the Meat are the goalies of the standard family buffet, and a good one is invaluable to the entire organization.

At least that’s the way I see it.

Last night I had two full adult meals, possibly three, and it was good. The only thing I didn’t care for was the meat loaf, which was kinda saucy. My last trip to the bar featured said meat loaf, taters ‘n’ gravy, a fully-loaded taco, and some sort of Chinese stir-fry. All on one plate. I wanted to wedge a little lasagna in there, but was afraid the plate might fold-under while I was carrying it.

Toney and the boys ate their share too, but I couldn’t get the Secrets to admit they liked it. They’re fully invested in hating the Old Country Buffet, but I know the truth. The truth lives inside me.

-- After we left the restaurant, we went to Borders. I wanted to have a look at The Stand, and try to decide if I really want to undertake a 1200-page novel.

I found the thick-ass thing, and opened it to the middle. Immediately I saw that not only is the book ridiculously large, but the print is ridiculously small. My pupils began to dilate as I tried to read a random paragraph; the font was, I think, the same as used in those disclaimer pamphlets they put inside packages of cold medicine.

Ferget it. No way I’d read some shit like that; I’d probably end up having a seizure. They did have a hardcover version, with a less-painful print-size, and it was only $14.99. The paperback was $8.99, so that would be an easy decision to make. 

But I just couldn’t do it. I left every copy sitting there. I’m sorry, but I’m intimidated by books that carry a warning label on the outside that shows a man lifting with his legs and not his back.

Then I happened upon the Score of the Day, my friends. It was in the bargain books section, and the floor of my ass nearly fell out when I saw it: the National Lampoon Sunday Newspaper Parody, for $3.99!

This thing was originally published in 1978, in the format of an actual Sunday newspaper. For reasons I can’t explain, I never owned a copy of it. I had the 1964 high school yearbook parody (genius!), and most other Lampoon products from that era, but never the Sunday newspaper. I tried to buy a copy on eBay several times, but the prices always got way out of hand.

Then I recently learned that it was reissued as a book, and it’s been on my Amazon wish-list ever since. And now it’s mine, all mine, for less than five bucks. Not to be too graphic, but I think I had to stand a little farther from the shelving than normal.

And speaking of that… seconds before the Score of the Day, the oldest Secret almost caught me flipping through another bargain book, called the Bible of Great Sex, or somesuch. It was a big glossy hardcover, and I’m only flesh and blood here.

I flipped it open to a random page, and it seemed to feature hundreds and hundreds of color photographs of a Barbie and Ken couple pretending to have sex in improbable positions. The man looked like that guy on the news, Stone Temple Phillips, or whatever. And the woman was sporting a Hitler moustache in an area of the female anatomy Hitler himself probably never saw.

When the oldest Secret came bounding around the corner, I slammed the thing shut and hid it behind my back, like I was ten years old again. 

Indeed, it reminded me of a time in fifth or sixth grade when I was sneaking a peek at a Playboy in the local Kroger, and a female classmate (Janet S., who sometimes reads this site…) caught me. I think I literally shrieked and dumped the magazine in a freezer full of Eggo waffles, before bolting the store, completely horrified.

More recently, I was in an airport somewhere, casually perusing a rack of magazines. I reached for a copy of Hustler that was missing its plastic wrap, and the second I touched it the entire shelf of smut came loose, and crashed loudly at my feet. Every head in the place turned, and there I was, standing amongst a pile of close-up vaginas.

And I don’t know how any of this happened today, how I went from chicken gravy to pornography, but I’d better wrap things up here.

But, you know, if you've got any embarrassing porn stories to tell...

Tomorrow I’m supposed to take part in something called a Supply Chain Roundtable, which is apparently a schmoozing event for out-of-work operations managers, or some deal. I’ll have to leave the house at 9 am, so there’s a real possibility I won’t update on Friday. 

I’ll try, though. And if I’m unable to pull it off… check the site over the weekend. I’ll do my best not to shortchange you folks this week. I really will.

Before I turn it over to Buck, can any of you guess who this is? (No, not Booji Boy.) Brad sent me the pic yesterday evening, and it caused me to toss and turn through the night. Sweet sainted mother of Danny O’Day. 

Also, I added a new item to the Ads vs. Reality page, one that probably pruned two full weeks off the back-end of my life. Damn good though. Check it out, at the top o' the page.

Now here’s something new and good from our old friend Buck.

And I’ll see you guys again real soon.



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Last updated
01/17/12 12:12 PM

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