Strange Brew

My dad is in town for a tournament tomorrow morning, so we all got together for dinner at a rib joint. I’m not sure that these pork-pushing establishments enjoy being slapped with the “joint” surname, but it doesn’t exactly seem right to call them “restaurants”. Personally, I think that any place which provides a service that requires you to thoroughly sterilize your hands and mouth with those sanitizing napkins deserves to be labeled a “joint”. It just fits, doesn’t it? Rib joints, pizza joints, chicken wing joints, brothel joints. Fine American institutions, all across the board.

Jesus, how much can I babble before getting to the actual point? Anyway, our waiter was straight out of a cartoon, if the cartoon was middle-aged, covered in bronzing creme, and treated customers like visiting foreign dignitaries as opposed to the fat, barbeque sauce swilling pigs that they are. I’ve never had a waiter shake my hand at the conclusion of a meal before, but now I can proudly say that this milestone has been accomplished. I’d wager he wiped his ass with it beforehand, but what an interesting gesture. Made it a little harder to get mad at him when he grabbed my girlfriend’s ass on the way out, too.