Tag Archives: fat guy eating cheeseburger

So This Is What My Husband Is Wasting His Time On? By Mrs. Allen Keyes.

4 Feb

February 4, 2014

MRS keyes

I recently found out about what my husband Allen does at 3 in the morning. Alone. In the dark. He’s writing a blog!!! The nerve of that crumbbum! At least if it was porn I could deal with it. But he’s a …..blogger. I can barely say the disgusting word. I mean, really. How could I ever face the gals down at the salon if they knew? Why even the Korean girls doing our nails would feel superior to me! NOOOOO!

                       mk1

He can be bothered to blog for what I assume is zero wages (I don’t think this “Mr. Blog” concern is exactly on par with my must-read favorite the HuffPo), but  he can’t be bothered to take out the garbage or wash the dishes or flush the forchrissakes toilet after he eats one of his patented tuna and bologna sandwiches. Tunlogna he calls it. I call it a sure bet to make me waste a can of glade masking the aftermath!

And how he writes about me! He’d make you think I was some kind of vile harpy battering him with rolling pins, frying pans, and the like! Like I would ever hit him with ANYTHING…….well, anything that would leave a mark anyway. Lots of nosy people out there you know.

 mk2

And let me tell you something…..he’s no prince either. Maybe YOU’D like to put up with finding tufts of shedded back hair in your bed most mornings? Who even knew you could have that situation!??!

 mk3

And the string of inanities that comes out of that man’s mouth! I’ve read some of his stuff when he wasn’t around stinking up the house with his gas, so I suppose you actually DO have a clue about how stupid he is. If I have to hear ONE more time about how he wants to own a beagle named bagel, I swear I’ll scream.

So can “Mr. Blog” (if that is your real name? Is your last name really Blog?) just leave my husband Allen alone?  It’s hard enough to get him to wear pants for more than 2 minutes without this blogging thing distracting him. Do you know how humiliating it is when UPS delivers a package and Al is laying around in beat up boxers with the words “Here comes da judge” over the crotch??

Enough with this Mr. Blog sh*t already!

 

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A Table For Six. No More, No Less. Must Be Six.

7 Jan

January 7, 2014

Saarah and I are running out of diners in Brooklyn. This one has lousy food. That one has lousy service. The other one insists on putting pork ribs in its vegetarian salad. Very frustrating! So last Friday we tried The Bridgeview Diner in Bay Ridge. It has a view of (care to guess?) the Verrazano Bridge. Had it been called the Cesspoolview Diner I never would have gone.

We were there around 9:30 and the place was nearly empty. It is divided into two sections. One, the larger, is the dining room, with tables of all sizes and booths ringing the walls. The other side has the counter and booths, no tables. The booth side was about half full, at best, and the dining room side had three tables pushed together to accommodate a party of 10 and there was also one couple in a booth. It was nearly empty. When you walk into the diner, you are in the reception area, which is in the middle of both halves. We specifically asked for a table. I am not a small man (in the pants! Sorry, sorry, had to write it. ) and sometimes a booth is a little bit of a squeeze. One day they’ll make a comfortable booth for men like me, you’ll see. Or maybe I’ll just lose a few pounds.

fat guy nachos

Anyway, the guy in the suit (Greeter? Maître d? Receptionist? What do you call the guy who seats you in a diner?) led us to a table not two feet away. Literally. Without so much as shuffling his feet he grabbed two menus off the counter and dropped them on a table right against their Christmas tree, smack dab in the middle of the floor, in the direct line of the draft from the front doors, and in the way of anyone and everyone walking in any direction. It was a bad table.

“This is a bad table,” Saarah said. Nothing gets by her.

We asked for another and he led us into the dining room, past four or five empty tables to the back. We assumed he was leading us to the last table, so we sat down. But no! We had to get up. You see, that was a table for six. And in fact, so were all the other tables. (The tables for four or two had been pushed together for the party.) Now as I said, it was nearly empty. If we took a table for six, and a party for six entered, there were five more tables for them. And if a second party of six entered, there were four more tables for them. And if the odds were defied yet again and a mind-blowing third party of six entered, there were still three more tables they could be seated at, and if, in a cosmic coincidence on the level of Godzilla sporting a tiny chapeau leveling Tokyo, a fourth party of six entered there would be yet two tables for them. And if another entered? Still another table. But no. So, with no other tables, I sat in a slightly uncomfortable booth.

We argued a bit but to no avail. The guy in the suit was adamant that those tables had to be ready in case a large party- or this case, six of them- came in.

After we were there about ten minutes, a party of three women came in and wanted a table. The guy would not give them one. One of them, with disgust dripping from her voice, asked him if he really thought a large party would come in at that hour of night and take up all the tables.

“Yes. Yes.”

He led them to a booth on the other side of the diner and that woman had a look on her face that said that she was about to leave but her friends talked her into staying.

By the time Saarah and I left, the large party had also left, the other couple had left, and the dining room was totally empty. If a party for 136 came in by God they were ready.

Saarah and I had already decided that we were never coming back to The Bridgeview Diner. Plus the fact that the French onion soup was really just chicken soup with cheese melted on top, and our waiter was really just a pimply busboy in an ill-fitting jacket who didn’t speak English (asking for cream cheese with my English muffin was a Herculean task) meant that they would not be getting a second chance.

Saarah and The Editor’s and Staff of Mr. Blog’s Tepid Ride give The Bridgeview Diner two thumbs down.

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