I knew I was deep in the she-it.
“Ain’t ya got no fried cheese,” the one with the most teeth asked.
They had already gulped down two King of Beers apiece and a couple loaves of bread while attempting to decipher the hieroglyphics of their menus. Apparently our not featuring any sort of fresh road kill was throwing them for a loop.
“No,” I replied while wishing for instantaneous nuclear winter. “The chef decided to forego the fried cheese and chicken wings with the seasonal menu revision.”
The one who had last potentially experienced bath water chimed in. “Chicken wings? Dang, now that would’ve been good. What’s this here es-car-GOTstuff, anyways?”
“French snails sautéed in butter and garlic,” I informed him while hoping to suddenly go deaf, dumb and blind.
Upon hearing that, the first one grinned to the degree that he was capable. “Slugs? She-it, I can git me all of them I want offa the driveway after a good rain!” And with that little side-splitter they shared a hearty chortle while high-fiving each other across the table.
“How’s ‘bout this caly-mary stuff. What’s that all about anyway,” inquired the slightly more hygienic of the two.
“Breaded squid,” I told him while hoping we’d be gravitationally pulled into the center of the sun. “You might like it, bein’ that it’s fried an’ all.”
“Ain’tcha got no normal vittles,” the tooth-laden one asked. “I don’t see no top sirloin nowheres on here.”
I was simultaneously stunned and impressed at his sudden spate of literacy. “All of our steaks are listed under that there section that says steaks,” I informed him after consulting my secret super-duper menu decoding ring.
“Yeah, I kin fuckin’ read,” he lied. “Gimme the closest thing ya got ta a top sirloin. I don’t want no red in the damn thing, neither. An’ what kinda side does I git with that?”
I braced myself for the tsunami of stupidity that was perilously close to pulling me under. “Ours is an ala carte menu, Sir. All sides are in addition to your entrée, however they are large enough to share.”
“Ya mean ta tell me that yer chargin’ these kinda prices an’ ya don’t even throw in a potato,” he pontificated in a rare moment of clarity. “She-it, the last time I got screwed that hard I at least gotta kiss afterwards!” And with that little comedic gem they shared a spontaneous guffaw while engaging in another airborne hand slap.
Per his palate’s desire for either beef jerky or shoe leather I wrote down that he wanted the New York Strip, well done. Without a kiss on the side.
I turned my attention toward the one who was slightly less ripe. “And what will you be having this evening, Sir,” I asked while hoping to be struck by lightning before he had the chance to answer.
“Danged if I don’t see no fish an’ chips anywheres on here,” he observed while pretending to make out those funny-looking letter thingys in front of him. “Hell, if’n there’s one thing ya ain’t seem ta got it’s any grease fer me ta wash this Budweiser down with.”
The irony of white trash champagne being washed away by a coagulated river of bacon fat wasn’t lost on me, and I stood there envisioning his arteries acting as a conduit for the heart attack I was hoping he’d experience in front of me. “That’s correct, Sir. We’re plum out of fried cod. However, I must say the lobster looks quite enticing this evening.”
I braced myself for the zinger I knew was coming. “Lobster? She-it, them ain’t nothin’ but overgrown crawdads! Hell, next thing ya know you’ll be tryin’ ta sell me frogs n’ crickets n’ lightnin’ bugs n’ all the other critters my kids bring home ta play with!”
While they were exchanging chuckles and kudos slaps, I envisioned the relative solace that awaited me after lopping off their heads with a dull kitchen knife and leaving their bodies as junk food for the forest varmints to live on before being converted to play things by fatherless yungins.
