Un Excess du Boeuf [Warning - Language!]

I just noticed that I haven't posted today! =:-0 I've been meaning to transfer some older posts from elsewhere to here, so here's a classic. Well, I think so, anyway.

P.S. Oh, someone [having read 'Billy sez' opined that there were too many curse words. In that case, beware of this post ;-)

P.P.S. Oh, and yes, I was mad at Pix when I wrote this. We're way past all that and each are now forgiven :-)

May 16, 2006 - Tuesday
Un excess du boeuf, or, a stream of conciousness regarding beef.
Current mood: full
I am satiated with beef. Why? Well, I am not a vegetarian, for beginners... tried one one time, and while she was tasty, just not filling. Once, in the 17th century, a French Field Marshal expired in the sack, with two women. On his death certificate was listed the cause of death: "un excess du femme"... oh, yeah.... laissez le bon temps rouler and on mine let it be written, "Un excess du le boeuf". Not that I have a death wish, mind you, but beef, beef, beef.

Once upon a time [no, that would make it a fairy tale].... "Now, this is a real no-shitter" [yep, THAT makes it a sea story] There were three sailors: a deck seaman, an Admiral, and a Chief Petty Officer, who were captured by the enemy. The bad guys informed them that soon, they would be executed, but having some semblance of a conscience, each would be granted one last wish. The seaman, being an ordinary Joe, opined that he would love to have a steak, medium rare, with a tall draft beer one last time before he left this plane of existence. The admiral, he wanted one last opportunity to make a speech..... Finally, the Chief Petty Officer, fearless and larger than life, roared out "Fuck n A, Bubba! I don't need nothin', but just shoot me before the admiral starts speakin'!"

Okay, okay, it dinna have much ado aboot boeuf, but a steak WAS mentioned, so it's fair game.... I went to Texas Roadhouse for dinner tonight. What's the big deal, you ask? Tuesday night, Pixie school night, which makes me a free agent for whatever I feel like doing to entertain myself. For some reason, a steak loomed large in my consciousness.... okay, okay, there's some history there.

You see, last Thursday we went out to dinner with Mike, the corporate guy. Army guy, nurse [not gay either], a solid individual who I think highly of. My altar ego, Kelley the drukken blond[e] chick - ask me aboot Broadway Oyster Bar and Crusty the Crustacean some time - and her signifother, John, were there, and so was Andrea, my Pixie. Dinner at Trailhead Brewery in Saint Charles. None of these fuckers had beer, which was brewed on the premises [it's good beer, really!].

Anyway, I was in the middle of ordering a Prime Rib, but the largest they had was 18 ounces. Throw it back until it grows a bit.... I've consumed 32 ounce PR's before, and of such a high quality, they don't even make you full. Derek, Kev, think San Diego, Roberto di Filippi's Butcher Shop up in Kearny Mesa, MIke Tyson fighting on the tube, waitresses seven foot tall with 48" legs, ensconsed in hip-hugging micro-minis, Tommy Lasorda a table or two over, bleeding Dodger Blue.... man, it doesn't get any better than this.... but I digress; I was negotiating with the waiter to try and get a larger prime rib that they proffered 18 ouncer. Hey - they have only to slice off a larger portion, no big deal, eh? Well, the dude had shit for brains or something, and just wasn't getting the gist of my request [I wasn't drunk or anything, either, yet]. So, Andrea in all of her mothering mode, chimed in and said "You don't need that much", so the motherfucking waiter high-tailed it. Well, [1] I didn't get the size of prime rib I wanted, [1b] when the 18 ouncer DID come out, it was layered in fat so that I got effectively a 12 ounce PR, and [2] it publicly humiliated me [sure, she later apologized and said that it was not right].

Learning point: when in doubt, "Shut the Fuck Up". If you are not absolutely sure, "Shut the Fuck Up". If you are about to offer unrequested advice, "Shut the Fuck Up". Finally, if what you are about to say will carry the equivalent weight as pouring a glass of ice water on my or anyone else's wee wee, you guessed it, "Shut the Fuck Up."

Now, back to the story. I went to Tejas Roadhouse, gonna get myself a steak... down to the Tejas Roadhouse, gonna get myself a steak....lawd have mercy I'm gonna get me some, the biggest I can break.... [sorry, got carried away by the blues; now back to our regularly scheduled programming]. The gal who seated me seemed to know me. I knew her not. She asked me why I had not been in, in some time, and I said, thinking I was caught [no, I owed her no monies, no young'n's a due/D&K that might sound familiar, but no relation was she, to you.....] Dustin was my waiter. Big Dust! He knew they had bigger prime ribs than advertised, so we negotiated a 22 ouncer, with seizure salad, and mashed taters [in white graby]. Lots of hot, sweet rolls and soft butter. A 22 ounce [notice the theme?] draft O'Fallon Gold, and another. Medium rare - sldes right down. No time for sergeants, and no room for dessert.

Rick [but it might have been Dave] the store manager, stopped by. Great guy, he asked me how things were in Wichita. Not wearing the mask with the "W" emblazoned thereupon, Amelia, and wondering how the fuck he knew I was born there, I played it cool. He was reacting to my Lear shirt, thinking it stood for LearJet. Nope, we build car seats. Nice conversation anyhow, and I made sure to tell him how much I appreciated his place. Mexico Road, across from Hoe Depot, Go there - you won't be disappointed [unless yer a vegan!].

Damned if I can remember the moral of the story, but "Let the man eat his steak". Amen. And now, a little grace... anyone parlez vous Francaise, oui? "Lache pa la potat" [Don't drop the potato].

BT, AR [PS - I'm not drunk or in any mind-altered state, other than jammed full of raw cow. Word. Out] ;-)