Our esteemed vice-president, Dick Cheney, is not known for his raucous sense of humor. Shooting people while hunting, maybe – but not telling jokes.
This past week he not only told a joke, but he managed to piss off the entire state of West (by God) Virginia. It was something about his wife researching the family tree and discovering that she had forbearers named Cheney. Dick’s response was something to the effect that they weren’t even from West Virginia.
Not bad for ol’ straight-laced Cheney. But we need to delve deeper into the mystique of the “Wild and Wonderful” state. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania – Pittsburgh to be exact. Since it’s only about 60 miles from there to the West (by God) Virginia border, we had no love for the ridge runners to our south. I was appalled, in fact, that my cousin would lower her standards and attend the University of West Virginia.
But I digress.
On the West Virginia Turnpike there is an attraction at exit 45 called “Tamarac – The Very Best of West Virginia.” It’s a collection of crafts made in that state – and it’s all very loosely packed into one small building.
Some other interesting facts about West (by God) Virginia:
Where was the toothbrush invented?
West Virginia. If it had been invented anywhere else it would have been called the teethbrush.
What’s the best thing to ever come out of West Virginia?
I-77.
Enough – enough – enough.
Gotta go.
Later,
obi
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
A Message From God
Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and as usual I had no idea what kind of present to give her. So I asked her what she wanted. “Just take me out to dinner,” she said.
Cool. That took me off the hook and I knew she’d be happy.
“Where do you wanna go?” I asked. Believe it or not there are a number of very good restaurants in and around Asheville, NC.
“Let’s go to Hooters,” was her reply.
After I picked myself up off the floor I asked, “Why?”
“They have steamed clams,” she said.
We may have good restaurants here, but being 400 miles from the coast means that the fresh seafood joints are practically non-existent. We do have a Red Lobster, but I’ve never really enjoyed a meal there.
So, Sunday night at about 7 we headed into Asheville to find the local Hooters. After only two wrong turns, and nearly hitting a young black man who was walking up the road with a white towel over his head, we were safely ensconced in their nearly empty parking lot.
We found a table in their smoking section and perused the menu. Not only did they have steamed clams, but they also offered oysters-on-the-half-shell. I was in heaven – until I checked their beer selections. I won’t drink Bud or any of its derivatives – that shot half the menu – likewise with Coors and Corona.
When our surprisingly small hootered waitress finally arrived I ordered an MGD. “A what?” she said. “A Miller Genuine Draft,” I answered. I should have been warned. Barbara ordered a mixed drink and we scanned the menus for a main course selection.
Ten minutes later, our distinctly non-Hooters type waitress returned with Barbara’s drink and a message for me. “We don’t sell MGD anymore,” she said.
Grab the beverage menu one more time. “OK, I’ll have a Killian’s Red.” It was the only other beer on their mostly domestic menu that I would drink.
After another 10-minute wait for the bartender to open a beer bottle, “Little Miss Push-up” sheepishly returned. “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said. “We’re out of Killian’s.”
Barbara and I just looked at each other, dumbfounded.
“OK, just bring me a Jack on-the-rocks.”
As she walked away she said, “You want Coke in that?”
“No, just Jack and ice. That’s all. No Coke, no Sprite, no water! Jack on-the-rocks.”
We’re getting on 30 minutes now, and I still didn’t have a fucking drink. This was not gonna be my night. But that’s OK. It was Barb’s birthday, not mine.
As I waited, parched, for something to drink, the young black man who had been walking up the road came in, with the towel still draped over his head, sat down at a table next to the wall and promptly fell asleep on the table.
Another 10 minutes passed before our red-faced waitress returned. “OK. This is getting weird. Our liquor shipment didn’t come in on Friday – we’re out of Jack Daniels.”
I looked up at her and smiled. “Just bring me an ice-water,” I said. “I know you can’t be out of that.”
Then I realized that this was God’s way of telling me – “Don’t drink and drive.”
Later,
obi
Cool. That took me off the hook and I knew she’d be happy.
“Where do you wanna go?” I asked. Believe it or not there are a number of very good restaurants in and around Asheville, NC.
“Let’s go to Hooters,” was her reply.
After I picked myself up off the floor I asked, “Why?”
“They have steamed clams,” she said.
We may have good restaurants here, but being 400 miles from the coast means that the fresh seafood joints are practically non-existent. We do have a Red Lobster, but I’ve never really enjoyed a meal there.
So, Sunday night at about 7 we headed into Asheville to find the local Hooters. After only two wrong turns, and nearly hitting a young black man who was walking up the road with a white towel over his head, we were safely ensconced in their nearly empty parking lot.
We found a table in their smoking section and perused the menu. Not only did they have steamed clams, but they also offered oysters-on-the-half-shell. I was in heaven – until I checked their beer selections. I won’t drink Bud or any of its derivatives – that shot half the menu – likewise with Coors and Corona.
When our surprisingly small hootered waitress finally arrived I ordered an MGD. “A what?” she said. “A Miller Genuine Draft,” I answered. I should have been warned. Barbara ordered a mixed drink and we scanned the menus for a main course selection.
Ten minutes later, our distinctly non-Hooters type waitress returned with Barbara’s drink and a message for me. “We don’t sell MGD anymore,” she said.
Grab the beverage menu one more time. “OK, I’ll have a Killian’s Red.” It was the only other beer on their mostly domestic menu that I would drink.
After another 10-minute wait for the bartender to open a beer bottle, “Little Miss Push-up” sheepishly returned. “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said. “We’re out of Killian’s.”
Barbara and I just looked at each other, dumbfounded.
“OK, just bring me a Jack on-the-rocks.”
As she walked away she said, “You want Coke in that?”
“No, just Jack and ice. That’s all. No Coke, no Sprite, no water! Jack on-the-rocks.”
We’re getting on 30 minutes now, and I still didn’t have a fucking drink. This was not gonna be my night. But that’s OK. It was Barb’s birthday, not mine.
As I waited, parched, for something to drink, the young black man who had been walking up the road came in, with the towel still draped over his head, sat down at a table next to the wall and promptly fell asleep on the table.
Another 10 minutes passed before our red-faced waitress returned. “OK. This is getting weird. Our liquor shipment didn’t come in on Friday – we’re out of Jack Daniels.”
I looked up at her and smiled. “Just bring me an ice-water,” I said. “I know you can’t be out of that.”
Then I realized that this was God’s way of telling me – “Don’t drink and drive.”
Later,
obi
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