We went over to the infamous restaurant where Paul Stanley and the TBI arranged to meet the kid who was blackmailing him for dinner. I mean, we went there for dinner. The kid wanted money, not supper.
I was under the impression that it was a hair pricey, but I tell you what, I paid eleven dollars for what I thought was going to be some rice, beans, a tamale, and a couple of things I didn’t know what they were, but ended up being tasty, crunchy chicken things.
And after I ate as much as I could eat without dying…
Folks, I am not even kidding you with what I am about to tell you.
I FOUND A STEAK ON MY PLATE!!!!!
A whole motherfucking steak.
And it came with some flour tortillas, too.
And I’m still not sure what the tortillas were for.
But a steak! And I don’t think it was an accident. I believe the people who run this place put a steak on my plate under what can only be described as a shit-ton of food on purpose.
Well, needless to say, I am happy and the dog is very happy.
I imagine this will be debunked so fast your head will spin. I’m not even trying and I can think of three weird false things about it.
But I think it’s funny that there’s an element of “Exercise has betrayed us!” to the whole story.
The Butcher was sick this weekend, which involved a lot of moping around on the couch and begging me to go for cold medicine. Now, in our house, we swear by the Alka-seltzer cold stuff, for one very important reason–unlike almost all other cold medicines, it does not put us instantly to sleep.
So, when I felt the cold coming on yesterday, I went to the box and discovered there were only a couple of packets missing, so I was all “Hey, no problem, I will not be sick, because I will, too, just take a couple of packets and…”
Not so much.
I am sick.
But, in weird news, my mom’s poison ivy doesn’t look any better than mine, and she’s been on steroids and special creams from her doctor.
For generations, the Tennessee blogosphere has been ordered by the understanding that there’s an Uncle on the Right and an Aunt (me) on the Left.
But my nephew has been calling me “Uncle Betsy” since he got here. And I kind of like it.
This morning, we were discussing what would happen if, when he grew up, he had the same voice as the Butcher. I told him that this would great, because, he could call and tell the Butcher’s friends to bring “The Butcher” cookies, to my nephew’s house, and no one would be the wiser.
But the drawback would be that the Butcher could order the nephew a bunch of really yucky pizzas. So, you can see how it would be both hilariously awesome and kind of sucky.
And now he’s tickling my “muscle fat” which is cracking me up.