New RC Comic. This really should have gone with my last post, but seriously, just scroll down why don't you?
click to enlarge
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JrX
Friday, September 23, 2011
A Not Quite Restaurant Review
So I’m having a meal with my brother at a local restaurant, whose name, for legal purposes, rhymes with Birloin Blockade. We were originally going to dine at Bolden Borral, but we stopped first to buy a video game from BameStop, and Birloin Blockade was closer than Bolden Bor—you know what, forget it. It was Sirloin Stockade and this is my account of what happened, lawyers be damned!
Immediately upon entering, I’m struck by how small the buffet section actually is. Maybe a quarter the size of the buffet at Golden Corral. Small island to the side for salad. A lonely section against the wall for the soups no one is eating. But, like, five soda fountains scattered throughout, presumably to keep us hydrated while we navigate the barren landscape between our seats and the buffet. But its Sirloin Stockade, so we’re really here for the steaks, right? I mean, this place has got sirloin in its name. I decide that I can look past the limited selection.
So with a sigh of resignation, I pick up a plate and proceeded to load it with various meats and starches. Now, those of you that know me know that I’m not really a salad guy. I’m more of a meat and potatoes guy. So I ignored the salad bar, but it wouldn’t have mattered. None of it looked particularly interesting, even to my discriminating eye.
So I started with the basics. A little mashed potatoes and gravy (awful gravy), some corn (tasteless and dry), and Salisbury steak. Now I can understand that most buffets only serve these itty bitty Salisbury steaks. It’s a buffet and you gotta keep costs down. But every time I get one from any buffet, it’s little more than a small piece of hamburger patty. It’s basically a BK Mini (all rights reserved). But, whatever. I move on to the pot roast. This was actually the worst looking but best tasting thing in the whole restaurant. So kudos for that. I also tried the chicken.The tenders where ok, but flavorless and the fried chicken was way too dry. All of this I ate first, because I wanted to save the steak for last. After all, this was Sirloin Stockade. There are pictures of cows everywhere; they can’t possibly go wrong there, could they?
he looks worried
I almost never found out.
Just as I was about to put knife to meat, I notice, with no small amount of shock, two small but determined ants crawling along my plate, heading directly for my entrée. These weren’t huge ants, but small creatures, like sugar ants or something. I couldn’t believe it at first and had to have my brother confirm they’re arrival. As he leans forward to inspect my plate, a third ant arrives, eager to join the party. Well this was un-fucking-acceptable. I immediately flag down a server and demand to speak to the manager. When he arrives I calmly present my plate to him and explain my, let’s say, concerns. By this time, there were two other servers surrounding us, and each of them could see the ants squirming in the steak sauce, but the look on the managers face was strained, as if he didn’t want to see what he was seeing. And he did indeed attempt to feign ignorance until both servers corroborated the sighting of the ants, at which point he accepted the plate and offered his apology.
Then nothing. I didn’t speak. He continued to not speak. It was becoming clear that the manager was hoping to end this incident with only his apology to assuage us.
“So, a little something for our troubles?”, my brother asks.
The manager, defeated without a fight, agrees.
“Well, I can refund your money or give you two coupons for a free buffet in the future”, he replies.
Before I can respond that my return to his establishment was about as likely as a chicken crossing the road without its’ motives being questioned (think about it), my brother accepts the coupons. So with a sigh of relief that the incident went no further, and no doubt glad that the restaurant was too sparsely populated to have any other customers overhear our troubles, the manager retreats to obtain our coupons and a fresh steak for me. Once it arrives, I begin to eat once again, somewhat disappointed that the steak was kinda…stringy? As I’m wondering exactly what part of the bovine this steak was obtained from, I’m surprised to find a couple of more goddamn ants on my freaking napkin. You don’t mess with a man’s napkin. The relationship between a man and his napkin is a sacred trust. It cleans our hands after finger foods. We wipe our mouths with them after a delicious meal. And now that trust is defiled.
these napkins were defiled
After meeting with the manager again, we determine that the ants had originally come from the napkin dispenser. With another apology, the manger leads us to an alternate table and carries the offending dispenser off to an unknown fate. Understand that throughout this entire ordeal, my brother hasn’t stopped eating. Its unclear to me at this point exactly what type of event could actually keep my brother from eating. The man eats twice as much as me and yet he’s only half my size. Fucking genetics.
Anyway, my appetite is gone by now. I decide that before I leave though, I might as well get dessert. Now, here’s the thing. As far as I’m concerned, any buffet worth its weight should have chocolate pudding in its’ dessert bar. Even Mexican buffets have chocolate pudding. Even Chinese buffets have chocolate pudding. I don’t know if aliens exist, or what planets they may come from if they do, but something tells me they would have chocolate pudding in their buffets too. You might have guessed already, but Sirloin Stockade does not have chocolate pudding in their dessert bar. They did have ice cream cones, however. One dispenser for chocolate, one for vanilla and one for, wait for it, choco-vanilla mixed!
So. No pudding, but two and a half ice cream flavors.
Next time I’m going to Bolden Borral.
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JrX
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
New Comic!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Adventures in Shopping
So I just got home at four in the morning, relaxing in my lazy boy, enjoying a number 2 combo from Whataburger (double meat, no onions, add cheese), when I realize that I forgot to bring home toilet paper. This is a problem, you see, because I haven’t had a (cough, cough) movement all day, and this number 2 combo promises to rectify that soon. Also, there are other assholes in the house besides my own, one of which pokes her head into the living room, like some sort of crazy haired groundhog, to remind me that dawn in closing in on us, and some people are regular. Shit.
Ok, no problem. Pajamas off, jeans back on. Stomach percolating, don’t think about it. Keys, check. Where the fuck is my cell phone? Ok, got it. Wallet? In pants, good. Walk outside, start car, look out windshield, can’t see shit. Wtf? Oh, right. Glasses. Ok, back in the house. Christ, now that I’m back in, I don’t want to go out. Focus, man. Back in the car.
Finally arrive at HEB (Here Everything’s Better) a few minutes later, to a desolate parking lot, something out of a post apocalyptic wasteland. Shopping carts are littered everywhere. Some have trash in them, discarded sodas and crumpled up receipts. A few are knocked over, as if they just gave up and died. Doesn't anybody get these at night? As I walk in to the front door, carefully navigating through the land mine that is the shopping cart graveyard, I notice what appears to be a homeless man sitting on the bench in front of the store, speaking with what looks to be a, uh, lady of the evening. A surreal tableau that would drive Norman Rockwell mad.
Moving on….
Sometimes, when you shop in the middle of the night, it can be relaxing. You've got all the time in the world. There’s no one around to get in your way. You don’t run into to that one person that you haven’t seen in ten years, and they start talking to you, wanting to know how you've been, and you don’t really give a shit, but you’re smiling anyway because you don’t want to be rude, but for the life of you, you can’t remember their fucking name, and pretty soon you’re wondering if you even know this person at all.
But its not like that at night, mostly. But tonight, I arrived right in the middle of stocking. Piles of boxes in every aisle, some stacked too high, wobbling dangerously by the noodles. And the stockers don’t care. They’re doing their work to the beat of their ipods, eyeing me warily, as if I've invaded their territory. And _____ (insert deity of your choosing) help you if you move their boxes in an effort to reach the tuna fish, the one in spring water, not the one in oil, because you’ll just have to turn right around and go back to the store and get the right one this time, goddammit! Where was I?
Right, the shopping. Reach in pocket for list. Wait, I didn't write a list. Well, only one thing to do at this point. Go down every aisle till I remember what I came for. I know that eventually I’ll come across what I came here for, but for now its aisle one. And right off the bat, I’m stung by the impulse bug. For right in front of me is a display reading “5 for $10” above a huge pile of Hill Country Fair sodas, the HEB brand. In 12 packs. A quick mental calculation later, I decide that, yes, I could use 60 generic sodas. Of course. As I’m packing them in my cart, rescued no doubt from parking lot oblivion by some kind hearted employee, I notice a shelf of pickles. I don’t need pickles. I can’t remember the last time I even bought pickles. In fact, I think I might have a jar of pickles at home that may be old enough to vote, but I decide right there that I need those pickles…
45 minutes and $50 worth of merchandise later, I finally place a $5 pack of toilet paper in my cart. Finally, household shitting can resume.
I blame al Queda.
JrX
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Friday, September 2, 2011
New Feature!
Introducing the Random Crapp comic. Because your day wasn't stupid enough.
*click to enhance*
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