This will most likely be the first in a long list of stories I will be posting about my recent trip to Americas heartland. A place where they eat deep fried cows stuffed with deep fried cheese and wrapped in deep fried bacon with a deep fried Snickers bar for dessert.
During the week long trip, I not only flew 4,000 miles but drove over 1,000 miles all over Wisconsin. At one point I pulled off the road to use the bathroom at a McDonalds about 10 miles outside of a city (I use the term city loosely. Also, if you aren’t in the center of a city, you are in the deep country). The first thing I notice is that the parking lot is free of 48oz soda spills, straw wrappers, and dirty diapers. In California we call these items breadcrumbs so you know how to get to the McDonalds or Wal-Mart. After walking through this urban meadow I get to the door and nearly knock my teeth out on the window. There in front of me is a full on replica of a Lake Tahoe living room complete with leather couches, marble floors, a freaking fireplace, and the motherload…..a 50+ inch plasma television. There, right in the McDonalds. In California, if your neighbor even knows you have a plasma TV, they’ll steal it, and yet there was one out in the wild. It didn’t even have a chain on it.
After the nice gray haired gentleman resuscitated me, I went to use the bathroom. Once again Ronald slaps me with luxury. Travertine floors, LCD panels in front of the urinals, toilet paper, and the cus de gras…..a real mirror. Not a shiny piece of metal but a real mirror. I thought restroom mirrors went the way of the dodo bird or Michael Richard’s career. I felt like a great explorer discovering something super cool. I was so impressed I actually got hungry and decided to get something to eat while I was there.
I walked around to the front of the restaurant and couldn’t help but notice how clean it was. I stepped up to order and person listened to me and actually took my order. Then she actually counted out my change. I walked to the soda fountain stupefied when I saw nothing. That’s right, no wrappers, no used lids, no spilled soda, no mold in the tray, and no rude customers. The soda fountain steel was shinier than the steel bathroom mirrors back home. Before I knew it, my order was ready. It was fresh. Not, it’s only been sitting around for 10 minutes fresh but just made fresh. I opened it up and the food looked like real food. The chicken was real, the lettuce was real, and the cheese was real (Maybe it was Wisconsin cheese, just made for me that morning).
I walked aimlessly outside to my trusty steed. I felt like I was just slapped by the softest most wonderful pillow in the world. One that smelled of clean mountain air and French fries. This, my friends, was heaven on earth. Thank you Ronald, Hamburgler, Grimace, and most of all the man in charge, Mayor McCheese.
Thursday, August 9
Tuesday, August 7
Don't Drink and Fly
It has been a long time since I threw some fonts at you oh gentle reader but I’m back and have a list of subjects as long as a chicken’s talons. So let’s get to it.
I recently made a trip out to God’s country for a family reunion (God owns the land but the devil must own the weather). I won’t get into details in this entry except for a story from the airport. We arrived at the airport a little early for our redeye flight so my stepdad and I head over to the bar for a beer. We sidle up to the bar with him on the left and myself between him and the waitress pass. Across the pass is a typical San Francisco hippie woman with her iMac laptop on the bar and a stumbling, loud drunk next to her.
We ordered our drinks and started talking to the bartender, all the while Barney is yakking in a voice that is not only louder than the boos Barry Bonds hears everyday but is also almost indecipherable. I catch small pieces of the conversation like how he partied in SF the night before and he was heading out to the ATL to party tonight.
Thought number 1: If you refer to a place by it’s airport code, you’re a douche nozzle.
Thought number 2: If you talk to a stranger about your partying in a bar, you’re an asshat.
Now that we have noticed Barney and can’t seem to shake him from our peripherals, we decide to make fun of him. That lasted 30 seconds until he decided to take his shot glass full of whiskey out into the terminal. Bartenders don’t seem to like people taking booze outside of the bar, I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the whole illegal part. Immediately the bartender yells at him to get back in the bar and Barney complied by storming back in and slamming his shot and then the glass it came in. The bartender volleyed back with the “That’s it you’re done, get out.” Which was followed by a stream of F-bombs and some other words that seemed to be fighting themselves to get out of Barney’s mouth for fear of alcohol poisoning. The bartender then threatened to call the cops and Barney left dropping bombs all the way down the terminal. Conveniently his gate was between ours and the bar and luckily his flight was delayed 2 hours.
The bar becomes a knitting circle in seconds and everyone starts making fun of Barney. About five minutes later the bartender notices that Barney left his boarding pass. Fantastic! Now he won’t be able to party in the ATL. Another five minutes goes by and like Waldo in a sea of stripes, he is poking around the bar looking for his boarding pass without the bartender seeing him. Once he realized that his reconnaissance mission was a failure, he left the bar with F-bombs trailing in his wake.
So now Barney is screwed. He can’t get on the plane without a boarding pass and if he goes to get another one, the podium jockey will see that he is tossed and refuse to let him on the plane. Plus it is now 11:00pm. You would think that this couldn’t get better but five minutes later we found his business card that he had given to the hippie girl. We then found his corporate credit card. Now he has to explain to his boss why he has an entire round of drinks for the whole bar on his card.
I recently made a trip out to God’s country for a family reunion (God owns the land but the devil must own the weather). I won’t get into details in this entry except for a story from the airport. We arrived at the airport a little early for our redeye flight so my stepdad and I head over to the bar for a beer. We sidle up to the bar with him on the left and myself between him and the waitress pass. Across the pass is a typical San Francisco hippie woman with her iMac laptop on the bar and a stumbling, loud drunk next to her.
We ordered our drinks and started talking to the bartender, all the while Barney is yakking in a voice that is not only louder than the boos Barry Bonds hears everyday but is also almost indecipherable. I catch small pieces of the conversation like how he partied in SF the night before and he was heading out to the ATL to party tonight.
Thought number 1: If you refer to a place by it’s airport code, you’re a douche nozzle.
Thought number 2: If you talk to a stranger about your partying in a bar, you’re an asshat.
Now that we have noticed Barney and can’t seem to shake him from our peripherals, we decide to make fun of him. That lasted 30 seconds until he decided to take his shot glass full of whiskey out into the terminal. Bartenders don’t seem to like people taking booze outside of the bar, I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the whole illegal part. Immediately the bartender yells at him to get back in the bar and Barney complied by storming back in and slamming his shot and then the glass it came in. The bartender volleyed back with the “That’s it you’re done, get out.” Which was followed by a stream of F-bombs and some other words that seemed to be fighting themselves to get out of Barney’s mouth for fear of alcohol poisoning. The bartender then threatened to call the cops and Barney left dropping bombs all the way down the terminal. Conveniently his gate was between ours and the bar and luckily his flight was delayed 2 hours.
The bar becomes a knitting circle in seconds and everyone starts making fun of Barney. About five minutes later the bartender notices that Barney left his boarding pass. Fantastic! Now he won’t be able to party in the ATL. Another five minutes goes by and like Waldo in a sea of stripes, he is poking around the bar looking for his boarding pass without the bartender seeing him. Once he realized that his reconnaissance mission was a failure, he left the bar with F-bombs trailing in his wake.
So now Barney is screwed. He can’t get on the plane without a boarding pass and if he goes to get another one, the podium jockey will see that he is tossed and refuse to let him on the plane. Plus it is now 11:00pm. You would think that this couldn’t get better but five minutes later we found his business card that he had given to the hippie girl. We then found his corporate credit card. Now he has to explain to his boss why he has an entire round of drinks for the whole bar on his card.
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