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September 27, 2003 - Saturday

 Welcome To Waffle House

El Steve called Beth the other day and sent a message to me through her: Enough with the Waffle House entries. I dunno what his problem is, but he actually threatened me over it: Stop with the entries or he’s going to call Beth every day while I’m out of town and ask her what she’s wearing.

Well, Steve-O, let me tell you something, buddy. I ask Beth that question all the time, and you know what her answer is? “I’m naked.” Every time. She’ll probably tell you the same thing, but don’t believe her. I know, I’ve made that mistake. She lies, you see. She’ll say she’s naked, but she’s really wearing sweats, or maybe a pair of ratty jeans and a sweater covered with dog hair and cat puke, or even a bathrobe and slippers. It’s just like when you call one of those “We’re 18!” chat lines — she’s rarely naked when she says she is. It’s her stock answer, so don’t be fooled. I tell you this to spare you my pain.

But go ahead, test me. I’m going to give you a tour of the local Waffle House, so I guess you’re going to have to call my wife. Enjoy both.

I’ll ease you into it. Imagine you’re driving down the highway. You’re feeling a little hungry, wondering where you might stop to eat. Then you see the sign up ahead:

“Yeah, Waffle House!” you think, “That sounds good!” So you take the next exit. You know you’re on the right track when you see the sign at the bottom of the off-ramp:

At the bottom of the exit, the finest restaurant in all the land hoves into view. Oops, it looks like you’ll be making a right turn from the left lane, but Waffle House inspires such lawlessness:

Getting closer… Here it is when you’re using the correct turn lane after using the wrong one:

You park. Here’s what it looks like from behind the wheel. You can see people inside already enjoying the finest food in the land:

You go inside. Welcome to Waffle House:

The waitress, Nikita, takes your order. She’s not your standard WH waitress — she has all her teeth. She’s trying to fit in by hiding them:

Sam cooks your order, Texas Cheesesteak sandwich and hash browns:

If you had friends, this is where they’d sit:

The finished product. Looks goooood (except for the pickles). How did you order those hashbrowns? Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked and topped. (In English that’s “scattered on the grill, smothered with diced onions, covered with a slice of American cheese, mixed with chunks of ham, and topped with a spoonful of Burt’s chili.):

A meal at Waffle House. You’re a happy man:

Want to hear some music while you eat? Drop a quarter in the jukebox. There’s one in every Waffle House:

Waffle House is a popular place. New customers come in while you’re eating:

Urp! Finished. Aaaahhhh:

All good things must end. You ask for the check:

Time to head back to your room. You won’t have to share the bathroom there, so you won’t need the beefy lock. Fortunately, your hotel is very close, so you’ll probably get there before the cramping begins:

…and that concludes our tour of the local Waffle House. I hope you enjoyed it. And Steve, I’ll tell Beth to expect your call. Even money says she’ll tell you she’s naked. Double or nothing that she’s not.


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 Movie Cop

One of my biggest pet peeves in life is people who talk in movie theaters. It infuriates me and I never let it go unchallenged. Two of my co-workers who will no longer go to movies with me once witnessed me 1) yelling back over my shoulder at a guy in the back row who was talking on his cell phone to shut up, 2) then throw Goobers at the same guy while yelling at him to shut up, 3) get up and go back to his row to tell him to shut up, and then 4) walk down his row to stand right in front of him and tell him to “hang the fuck up.” They were convinced a brawl was going to break out. One didn’t: the asshole hung up. So you can see I don’t put up with a whole lot of noise in my movies.

Well, I had another incident today. I went to see The Rundown this afternoon (I give it an enthusiastic two thumbs up), and Billy Joe Jim Bob decided to bring his 4-month old infant in a child carrier with him. As soon as he sat down four seats down from me I knew there was going to be trouble, and sure enough the kid started squalling within minutes.

Look, I understand that babies cry, I had one that did it myself. But you know what? Babies cry, so you’re an asshole if you take them to the movies. You may be able to tune it out, but the rest of the theater shouldn’t have to. Just stay home, have some consideration for the people around you. That’s what Beth and I did when Zoe was little.

So Billy Joe’s spawn is yowling. I gave him about 30 seconds to cork the kid, then leaned over and said, “Hey, this ain’t gonna work. Move or get out.” He huffed and puffed and I interrupted to repeat “move or get out” and gave him the added option of paying for my ticket since he was ruining my movie.

“Don’t you go gittin’ smart with me!” he drawled at me, so I stood up and leaned over him and told him I wasn’t getting smart, I was getting “fucking brilliant,” and that he should find another seat or get the fuck out. From all around us I felt a general sense of drawing-back as the people around us thought fists were about to fly.

But then the guy’s wife (or sister, or mother, or maybe all three) showed up and broke the tension. She took the baby and he complained to her that “this guy’s gittin’ smart with me!” and I sat back down and she and the baby went away (I have no idea where she came from or went to) and peace and quiet was restored. For the rest of the movie Billy Joe glared at me from time to time and I readied myself for the inevitable showdown in the lobby, but he was out of his seat like a jackrabbit when the credits rolled and was nowhere to be seen when I followed him out a minute later.

So to my fellow audience members of Fort Smith, AR’s Carmike 14 theater’s 4:40 pm showing of The Rundown: you’re welcome. And to everyone reading this who will ever be in the same theater with me: please, oh please, be quiet. I will make a scene.


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