Red Lobster

So, the Butcher turns twenty-five on Sunday. It’s also all-you-can-eat shrimp time at Red Lobster. Last year, he could eat 140 shrimp over the course of three hours.

If you think going to Red Lobster is boring, try sitting in the Red Lobster for three hours as the Butcher and your waitress engage in an epic battle. She’s delivering his shrimp as slowly as possible, hoping he’ll get bored and go home. He’s eating them as quickly as possible, in an effort to bring out the next batch. You’re sitting there wondering if the other patrons–some of whom are surely crackheads–might stab you in the neck and put you out of your misery.

We have been going to Red Lobster for as long as I can remember. It is, as far as our family is concerned, a fancy restaurant for special occasions.

Every birthday of everyone in our family was celebrated at Red Lobster. Each wedding anniversary, end of school, end of probation–all ended up at Red Lobster.

For my readers who are not from the U.S. or who have somehow managed to get through life without going to Red Lobster, let me tell you what it’s like. Say you live your whole life with only regular 8×10 notebook paper with which to wipe your ass. But let us also say that on special occasions, like your birthday, you were given a roll of paper towel. One day you grow up and, though you cannot afford for three nubile virgins to wipe your ass with their bare hands, you can at least afford toilet paper.

We can afford toilet paper, at this point. We’re eating at the restaurant equivalent of paper towel. It’ll do in a pinch, but why he’s choosing it, I just don’t know.

The Big Nashville Blogger Meet-Up

There’s this joke going around that now at least ten people have either told me or forwarded me, because they think I’ll find it funny.

It goes something like this:

One of Bush’s aids is briefing him on the events of the last twenty-four hours and he’s going down the list of casualties and he said, “…and, Sir, four Brazilian soldiers were also killed.”

And, startlingly, the President starts to cry. The aid is kind of taken aback, but goes over to comfort him. The President looks up at him woefully and asks “My god, how many is a brazilian?”

Which, I guess, is funny. Unless you’re the girl trying to come up with two dollars in change to pay her bar tab who finally has to be like, “Well, fuck, that looks like a dollar, but I’d better have Sarcastro count it.”

Already, I owe Sarcastro approximately eleventy-seven dollars, or whatever that equals in U.S. money. And, at this rate, by tomorrow, I’ll owe him eleventy-eight. I don’t find jokes about unfamiliarity with numbers funny, because they hit too close to home.

Anyway, there was another big blogger meetup last night and I went and had an awesome time. Paul Chenoweth is very cool to talk to and I got to hear all about his plans for taking over the world, one computer literate teacher at a time.

That Monroe dude from The Monroe Doctrine had the funniest line of the night when, upon realizing who I was, blurted out, basically “My god, you don’t seem like misguided psycho bitch,”* and then got all embarrassed and apologized profusely.

Blake and I talked a little bit about having a blogger meet-up involving guns. Blake seems to think this would be a good idea, even though I will be there.

And, there’s a guy in Nashville with an ultimate fighting blog and he was so nice and answered all of my questions about ultimate fighting and, I think, he’s a dude that could teach a girl how to kick someone in the face. So, that’s cool. I’m going to have to track down his blog and link to it, the next time I do a big update.

Bob Krumm was there briefly and, my god, he’s hot in a kind of Republicanny way. Bob, redo your blog photo. Don’t rest solely on your conservative ideas; rise to power on the strength of your personal charm and good looks. It worked for Clinton. But you’ve got to start with a blog photo that conveys said assets.

Mr. Roboto was our host, I think**. At least, he was doing all of the host-y things. Perhaps, Mr. Krumm, you need to keep Mr. Roboto in your back pocket to organize all your political gatherings, because, as a host as well as a person, Roboto rocks.

Brittney was there and looking very birthday girly, as well as Tim Morgan–the man responsible for identifying my remains, should I die while walking the dog and wearing his t-shirt.

Chris and Amanda were there and I told them that, should group marriage ever become legal, they are my first choice for spouses… spouse-couple… whatever the term will be.

I got to meet Pink Kitty, who looked familiar, but I forgot to ask her if we knew each other in some other life. And I was a little star-struck by meeting the famous Busy Mom.

And the Rug Designer was there, with her husband. I really regret not talking to her more. She and her husband came in the room like Hera and Zeus*** all regal and self-possessed. I have made a mental note to invite the Rug Designer to lunch and now, I’m making a real note, right here.

But the most awesome surprise of the evening was that Huck was there! And he was nice and funny and smart and, unlike almost every other guy in the room, not conservative and not a little put out with me for lumping them in with true fucktards. Hurray for Huck. I also got to meet his wife and his… three? eight? … some amount of sleeping children.

So, everyone else was nice and charming and fun and I love them all, in a purely blogtonic way.

How was I?

Me: Sarcastro, I’m totally going to fight you.

Sarcastro: You’ll lose.

Me: Well, duh, I don’t care. I’m totally going to fight you.

Sarcastro: Great. If I win, I look like a jackass for beating up a girl. If I lose, I look like a pussy.

Me: I’m just a genius that way.

Some random Nashville blogger: Hi, I’m so and so.

Me: I’m totally going to fight Sarcastro.

Some random Nashville blogger: Not Roger Abramson?

Me: Oh, yeah, him too.

Sarcastro, from across the room: My god, woman, are you still talking about fighting me?

So, you know, I was my same old self–amusing to me, probably not so much to the rest of the world.

[Edited to add: Hey, Sarcastro has pictures! Go check his site for the illustrated version of the night’s events.]

*This was not it exactly, obviously, but along those lines.

** Isn’t that how it worked? Roboto was the host and Rex Hammock was the bankroll? I think so, and so, I say, thanks to both of you.

*** Well, you know, if Hera and Zeus got along.