Red Lobster Concluded

So, we went to Red Lobster. I begged the Professor to come along so that I would have some company, but she was off to the drag show* and couldn’t.

Luckily, the Red-Headed Kid came along, because he wisely conconcted this plan where he and I both ordered dinners that came with popcorn shrimp and neither of us ate our popcorn shrimp.

So–y’all I have to interrupt here to just point out that what I am about to tell you is so fucking brilliant that I am a little in awe of the Red-Headed Kid–as the Butcher was waiting for them to bring him out his next rounds of shrimp, we fed him our shrimp. Thus helping to fill him up in a timely manner.

But let me tell y’all something else. W. is fucking right. The Red-Headed Kid and I paid $11.99** for a humongous amount of food, most of which neither of us ate, both because of the Red-Headed Kid’s awesome plan, and because it was just too much food. I paid $15.99 for the Butcher to get “neverending” shrimp, which, because they brought it out to him so slowly, ended up being a lot less food than what we got.

Still, we had to “encourage” the Butcher to be done before he felt like he’d gotten all the shrimp he could eat. The Red-Headed Kid did this by starting to smoke. I did this by first almost falling asleep at the table*** and then pointing out that, eventually, the Red-Headed Kid and I were going to realize that the eleven year age-gap and the Shill’s rule**** mean nothing in the face of sitting through our fertile years at Red Lobster, and we’d have to start fucking on a nearby table.

Folks, the Red-Headed Kid is terrified of women, as the Professor can attest. The fact that he would explain to the Butcher that he would eventually feel compelled to father my children was both hilarious and deeply touching (and a mite creepy, as he is so young).

Anyway, we would have been there longer, watching the Butcher eat shrimp, but he was increasingly pissed off that they bring you big shrimp at first and then progressively smaller shrimp as the evening goes on. He was spouting out some numbers like “They started with 10-15s and now I’m eating 15-20s.” I don’t know what that means, but to a Butcher, apparently, it’s a grave insult.

And though we had not reached the limit to how many shrimp a man can eat, we had, apparently, reached the limit to how many grave insults he can stand. And so, finally, we got to come home.

*Yes, October has been the month of me missing out on all the fun shit the Professor has been up to. Let’s hope November is different.
**Coincidently the amount now left in my savings after this little extravagance.
***This walking home shit is nice, but I haven’t quite adjusted. And I’m going to have to get pepper spray if I’m going to continue to do it after the time change. And, strange men in cars of Nashville, you may be nice. I don’t know. But listen, if you don’t know me, don’t ask me if I need a ride. I don’t find it nice, I find it disturbing. Hell, even if I’m laying by the side of the road, almost dead from that last hill, just call an ambulance. If I don’t know you, don’t talk to me on my walk.
****Is it ridiculous for you to be with someone? Take your age, divide it by two, and add seven. That’s the youngest you can go without looking like a damn fool. I’m thirty one, so the youngest I can go, according to the Shill’s rule*****, is… fuck, math… um, twenty-two and a half? And the Redheaded Kid is twenty. If I knew how to do math, I could figure out how long we’d have to sit at Red Lobster waiting on the Butcher before we could put our plan into action, but I don’t and I’m no longer at Red Lobster, so I don’t need to.
*****Have I ever footnoted a footnote before? Has anyone? Anyway, I should point out that I don’t know if the Shill came up with this rule, but I heard it from her, so I attribute it to her. If you are actually the creator of said rule, you have a PR problem.