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No Plates for Mr. Classy.

26 Jun

June 26, 2022

The Blog family went out to dinner today. It was Mr. and Mrs. Blog, Mamma Blog, and ne’er-do-well brother Allan Keyes. Just to show how classy we are, we went to Olive Garden. In a city full of good Italian restaurants, we decided to go to the chain place at the mall.

We were immediately seated, and in a restaurant nearly empty, were given a table close, but not too close, to the kitchen, and within direct sight, though not smell, of the bathrooms. Olive Garden knows a classy family when it sees one.

After a perusal of the menu, we ordered, among other things, the spinach and artichoke dip appetizer. The waitress informed us that it wasn’t quite ready and might take a little longer, maybe ten minutes. We were OK with that and ordered some other appetizers as well.

I can probably answer this question for you, CNBC.

The other appetizers came and the waitress brought our drinks. We were ready to begin, except for the small detail that we had no plates. I did the math: 4 people + 2 appetizers = 0 plates just isn’t right.

We flagged down the waitress and explained that we would rather not eat gooey lasagna fritter off the table and just perhaps some plates would be in order. She was very sympathetic and so, nearly six minutes later she brought the plates. And the spinach and artichoke dip? Just a few minutes more.

We finished the appetizers and the entrees arrived, none too quickly. And the spinach dip? Might be another half hour. Yes, that’s right, another half hour, meaning that it would be ready for us right about when we were paying the check. What was the problem, we inquired?

It was still frozen.

We canceled the dip.

After finishing our meal, and I will spare you the details because the food we actually did get was mediocre at best, (I am sure the frozen-in-a-block-of-ice spinach dip would have been utterly delicious), we paid the bill on one of those annoying electronic monitors they stick on your table so you can do the work they pay the waitress for. The screen detailed the order and there was the reason why we did not get any plates.

The bill specified that we were not to get any plates with the appetizers.

What’s up with that? Should I take this personally? Did they look at us and say “this family of apes can eat with their fingers. Maybe we won’t give them napkins either.”? They went out of their way to PUT IN CAPITALS “NO APP PLATES.” Was that a warning to the server? “You better not give them plates or we are going to punish you by making you thaw out the spinach dip with a match.”

Well, I don’t know what was going on, but Allan Keyes gave the waitress an appropriate tip (and luckily he did not give her the finger) and then the electronic annoyance asked him to fill out a survey, which he did in excruciatingly exact detail.

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Mr. Blog’s Tepid Gun Permit

8 Apr

April 8, 2022

YEEE HAW and Howdy, Mr. Blog’s Bucakroos! Why is your old pal Hombre Blog talking like he’s gone plumb loco? That’s because I HAVE! YAAAAHOOOO!

You see, Mr. Blog is about to go on vacation, and not just any vacation, Mr. Blog is on his way to one of those crazy southern states where gun laws are lax and the death penalty abounds! And I have to tell you, Mr. Blog is so excited about this, he is/I am talking about Mr. Blog/myself in the third person! How zag-nutty is that???

Yes indeed, I am excited because while I am in the largely lawless South, I am going to get myself a gun permit. Yes indeed. A permit. A gun permit! Take that, lawbreakers and criminals! Screw you, first and/or fifth Amendment haters, whichever is the right to bear arms Amendment. GUN PERMIT!

What? No, no, I am not getting a gun. Are you crazy? A gun? Those things are dangerous. And to tell the truth, I stay away from them at a respectful distance, like you would an angry dog or the Pope.

But a gun permit? Oh HELL YEAH! That’ll show them I am a man not to be messed with. “Hey! You Mr. Subway Mugger-Man! Yeah, I’m talking to you. Don’t come any closer, I have a gun permit!” That’ll show him the type of man I am. I am a man licensed by the government to have a gun! I am a possibly potentially Dangerous Dan Dude. “Yeah, I got a gun permit. Want to see it? Yeah punk, John Law says I can carry heat. So STAY BACK! I COULD BE A BAD MAN!”

Walking down the street late at night, who cares? I’ll let money drip out of my pocket like a leaky hose, no one will mess with me, I have a gun permit and I very well could be packing serious heat if I damn well wanted to, which I don’t, but I could, so stay back. LOOK AT MY GUN PERMIT, SKELL! Put on your glasses, fool, there is fine print at the bottom. I am responsible enough to be allowed to carry a gun and scared of them enough not to, but you don’t know that, do you? Do you?

007 has a license, I have a permit. SAME THING. Yeah, I am totally getting a gun permit. That’ll show everyone. I am allowed to carry a gun! Stay way back! Respect my author-it-tay! I may not have a gun, but I could if I wanted to, I am allowed! PERMIT!

Yeah, total tough guy here. Gun permit. I also have a dog license. Maybe I have a Rottweiler in my pocket too, want to find out? Yeah, gun permit!*

* Please Note: Mr. Blog will not be getting a gun permit. Signed, Mr. Blog’s wife.

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