Me Talk Pretty One Day

I've been really into Sherlock Holmes lately and have always loved his uncanny ability to make brilliant deductions about people based on keen observational data. So with that in mind I decided to try to alleviate the boredom the other day at the Fajita Factory. My first subject was an easy one: A grandfather in his 50's dining out with his charming little family, wife, daughter and her child. Pa orders a "Koh-Cola" and a "Jah-lapeno burger". Yes, he pronounced the J in jalapeno. What does this tell me about him? A lot actually...

1. He drives a white (black is a scary colour) pickup truck with a picture of a deer on it somewhere and a     Georgia Bulldawgs sticker. He learned to drive on his grandpa's riding lawnmower.

Damn dirty Mexi-CANs

2. He saw Grandma get run over by a reindeer.

3. He owns seven baseball caps but no ties.

4. He thinks all brown skinned people are 'Mexi-CANs' and doesn't trust them.

5. If his house were on fire and he could only save one person, it would be his coonhound.

6. He is about to willingly consume a sandwich that has 2200 calories, 144 grams of fat and 6600 mg. of sodium, which means he's not afraid to die of a heart attack, and would welcome the escape from his pilled out spouse that he married in a shotgun wedding after knocking her up in the parking lot of a junkyard while they waited for his brother Bubba II to find a carburetor for his '69 Dodge Charger,  General Lee.


 I may have stolen that last bit from The Dukes Of Hazzard. Sorry about that, Cooter.

"Right 'bout that time Pa's arteries were in a heap o' trouble!"

More To Love

Yesterday I brought food to two very overweight ladies and observed a variety of 'weight loss' pills on the table. I didn't catch the name of the pills as I was struggling with a rather heavy tray laden with all manner of fried chicken strips, freedom fries and other beige food items. My reverie was broken by their curt demands for ranch dressing to dip these beige things in. I have already been over ranch dressing. It is fat in a bowl. I wonder if you planted those pills in the garden would they grow into a beanstalk that will take you to Narnia.
So the question for today's blog is:

How can people be so ignorant as to believe that they can routinely eat buckets of fried beige meat with fried potatoes dipped in bowls of fat sauce and wash it down with a gallon of sugar water and not continue to balloon out like a bloated drowned cow?

People are getting fat in America. Those of us who aren't fat are the minority now, which means that in the future, we will have to have special toilets so we don't fall in. Look at this thing:

this is considered a bathtub in Japan

That is what the future looks like. It's rated for 500+lbs and it's almost a yard across.


I don't care what the late night t.v. commercial says. The only pill you could eat after that disgusting shame banquet that would possibly prevent the postal service giving you your own zip code would be something containing freeze dried tapeworm larvae. But people will do anything to avoid getting off their asses apparently. Look at the attention given to the whole Dr. Atkins diet revolution. I worked at the Macaroni Grill when  this travesty took hold of the nation and had to grit my teeth while these porcine wankers tried to order food that Dr. Atkins would approve of. Which at a pasta restaurant is pretty much nothing. This got so out of hand that when he died it was a bit of a relief because when I had to deal with one of those nincompoops and they started trying to order a double cheese and prosciutto sandwich with no bread and a bowl of bacon I would have only to stare at them until they started to putter out and then I would wait patiently for them to stop talking. I would stare at them until they were quite finished. And then I would say, "You know Dr. Atkins is dead right? He died. Of  a  HEART ATTACK."

Dr. Atkins prescribes...more pork rinds!

If you had told me that the new diet craze would be one in which you are not allowed to eat fruit or grains and are encouraged to eat pork rinds and butter and entire packages of bacon I would have laughed and said, "no way are people that stupid." And I would be wrong.  The well of human ignorance is bottomless, like a basket of tortilla chips at the Fajita Factory.

Auld Lang Syne= Scottish for Drunken Horde

I am enjoying a well deserved day of lounging about after a marathon gig at the biggest New Year's Eve party in the South. It's Atlanta's answer to New York City's Big Apple Ball Drop. It's called The Peach Drop. We're clever like that. I understand the one in NYC is an exquisite affair of Waterford crystal. Ours is an 800 pound plastic peach that looks like a big butt. 

checking for hemorrhoids

 Anyway, I didn't see the peach drop. All I saw was the biggest rowdy mob of drunk people outside of Times Square, but I personally believe our crowd was drunker than theirs because in New York city a beer costs $28 and we were slinging it for $5 a pop. For a tallboy. So you do the math. That is a veritable Niagara Falls of alcohol and I was pouring that hooch as if my life depended on it, which judging from the demeanor of that crowd it very well may have. If you are a bartender, try to imagine the busiest you have ever ever been, then double that and sustain it for seven hours. According the the press releases from The Peach Drop, average turnout is 180,000 per year. That is not to say I served drinks to 180,000 people, just the ones who were resourceful and determined enough to claw their way to the bar. They literally drank us out of stock. At the end of the night all we had left was a couple of bottles of Red Stripe Light (which I didn't know existed) and three bottles of tomato flavoured vodka (why does that even exist?). I have never seen such a thirsty horde. The amazing thing is that for such chaos, everyone for the most part was genial. It only started to get ugly after the Peach dropped at midnight and we started to run out of liquor. Then the crowd got a bit nasty. I only had to put my Bitch Hat on once when a  really sloshed sorority sister did the inevitable, "I saw you make those vodka Redbulls and you barely put any vodka in them." If you tend bar you are well acquainted with this phenomenon. The shitfaced crave the liquor like Gollum with his 'Precious'.

"what's Jager Bombs, Precious?"

 I leaned in close so as to be heard clearly over the roar of the mob and declared, "You can take them or FUCKING leave them."
 Abashed, she conferred briefly with her drunk ass gaggle of sisters and then took the drinks, with nothing but  a  meek,"Thank you, ma'am."
That's right. You're welcome.

So everyone came out in one piece, I'm sure a lot of  babies were made and many a snookered white boy woke up without a wallet. I made buckets of cash and still got to kiss my fella at midnight.

Epilogue:
At the end of the night while entering tips for a Sisyphian pile of charge slips that if you could stack them would have been literally a foot high something occurred to me. I still can't fully process it and the more I think about it the deeper and more textured my sadness becomes: During the busiest night of the year for the drunkest crowd ever that partied later than I would have thought possible I realised those charge slips contained less mathematical errors than my checkout on a standard Tuesday night at the Fajita Factory. Not one of them among hundreds had mysterious chicken scratch on them where the person had to carry any numbers to work out their total for payment. The full extent of how ignorant our clientele actually are is beginning to dawn on me.

Happy New Year to you all, and here's to better fortunes...