Lunchtime in Ole Miss. OK, I should be smarter than to have any expectations about eating at a Waffle House. But I just wanted some Atkins-friendly bacon & eggs, and they tend to deliver that sort of thing. (Note to self: the 3-day-on / 4-day off Atkins diet is an excellent weight-gain regimen.) I have favorite Waffle Houses in several states of Our Great Nation. This one will not make the list. I will fucking graze in the median beside the trash-littered highway tomorrow before I go back to this particular Chateau d'indecision
But come on, it's Waffle House: this is the kind of place that appeals to people who cannot judge a good pinot noir. And pilots. Pilots, too. (Who am I kidding? I had to look up "Pinot Noir" to be sure I was spelling it right.)
But my dining companions. In the next booth, actually. This chick was, I'm sorry to use the term, a fucking bitch. Any other term (Leona the Fucking Hun? Adolpha Fucking Hitler? Karla Fucking Rove?) is a soft, candy-assed, Where's Elmo simulacrum of reality. This woman was a black hole of ignorance and negative energy. We're talking absolutely world class tornado-bait Whiskey Tango. One rued the loss of the perfectly good air used to sustain her.
Oh, and did I mention that she was the mother of two fine young boys? Ages 5 and 8, I'd say. By the time lunch was over I earnestly wished for their release into loving foster care, preferably after the fiery car crash that claims their lobotomized, chain-smoking eggplant of a mother while they're babysitting themselves on an early drunken Saturday morning. OK, sorry. But she was that bad. I endured, during my lunch & sudoku puzzle (I could not suffer the crossword as well), an angry tirade on every subject, to include drinking capacities and restraining orders and vaginal warts. All to the lovely soundtrack of a "mothering" style that stopped a white trash cooch hair shy of outright abuse. She could hardly have done worse if she actively hated her children.
The two boys evidently had different fathers, and she talked of her upcoming marriage, so there are at least three penises that have become snarled in Harlot's Web. (Not that I could generate much sympathy for any guy who found her to be a better companion than Ye Olde Right Hande.) But I felt like kidnapping the boys.
My walk back to the hotel included tangoing thru a Kroger's parking lot, where I counted something like 30 shopping carts strategically abandoned where they could block the maximum number of parking spots (my contempt for the people who cannot pick up after themselves only slightly trumping my contempt for those who walk right past 20 shopping carts in the parking lot only to demand that a cart be waiting for them 50 yards later when they get inside). Oh yeah, and a swaggering young executive double parking his Corvette across two handicapped parking spaces while he shucked his best basketball jive into the store for a pack of smokes.
I guess I need--the world needs me--to go back to bed.