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It’s time to talk tattoos, Pranksters!

Now if you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am decidedly not a foodie. If it’s not prepackaged, I don’t want to eat it. I’m the first to admit I have “food issues” and the second to ask you for an Uncrustable. I probably have scurvy. Thank the Good Lord of Butter I take my (expired) vitamins.

But I’ve occasionally been out to those restaurants that add a zillion ingredients – all with many descriptive terms – to their menu.

And I’ve decided that in lieu of blogging as a career, mayhap I should go into writing descriptions for Foodie Food.

Let’s try this and see how I do.

I’ll start with a diner hamburger.

“The moist, succulent quality of the 100% Angus beef is fried in the fat of dozens of it’s companions, topped by an onion that was left out for three hours aged onion and a single piece of lightly browned romaine lettuce, with the soft, unresisting paper-thin piece of tomato, cut so delightfully thin to save money because OMG Mexico costs a ton to ship vegetables all atop the soft, and yet firm hamburger bun, dotted perfectly with little pops that are at least 90% sesame seeds. Throw on a dollop of perfectly aged premium generic ketchup and you will never look at a burger (or the toilet) the same way.”

Isn’t your mouth WATERING? Mine is. But that may be nausea, not hunger. I can’t tell.

Next, an Old American Favorite, Split Pea Soup:

“As it arrived at the table, I’m struck first by the smell as it approaches. That vaguely earthy smell of mashed up legumes that puts me in mind of spoon feeding a baby. My first baby. He taught me to never try that again, by projectile vomiting the strained peas back as fast as I could get them to his mouth.

I’m reminded of the Exorcist as I suddenly lose my appetite. As it is set before me, I’m lost, staring into the thick, murky mire of the soup. It’s consistency reminds me vaguely of drywall putty, or perhaps of that stuff that people use to polish brass. How does one describe perfection except to say that you know it when you’ve found it?

And this? Was perfectly abominable.

From the earthy taste of the peas, to the dried pieces of cilantro that were used as a “garnish,” this was a hot mess, from back to front.”


That wasn’t right. I was supposed to make you WANT it. Not think of The Exorcist.

Guess you’ll have to keep Your Aunt Becky around after all, Pranksters.

Saturday morning, as I blurrily drank my eighty-niner cup of coffee while trying desperately to wake my sorry ass up, Dave bounded into the room and announced, “YOU’RE TAKING ME OUT TO LUNCH TOMORROW.”

For someone who is normally soft-spoken, he was BEYOND loud. Or perhaps it was merely a loud morning. I’m SO not a morning person.

I tried to reach the dusty recesses of my brain to ascertain why, exactly, I was supposed to be taking The Daver out to lunch. His birthday? Our anniversary? National Pancake Day?

I bit the bullet. “Why?” I groggily spat out.


I stuck my fingers in my ears to deaden the noise a bit. Since he did say FREE, and FREE is always better than paying, I wondered if I, too, could pass for a Dave.

The following morning, I peeled myself out of bed, completely forgetting that it was Dave Day (HOW did that ever slip my non-Daveish mind?). Downstairs, the kids were dressed, fed and ready to go for the first time, well, EVER.

Dave was practically bounding off the walls with glee. “IT’S DAVE DAY!” he announced, loudly enough that I nearly punched him in the throat, just to make him shut the fuck up. “WE’RE OUT OF COFFEE!” he screamed. “I DRANK IT ALL.”

Like that was a surprise or something. I mumbled, “fucker” under my breath as I hoped he wouldn’t stroke out from the excitement.

Once I swept the cobwebs from my brain and cleared the sleep from my eyes, I finally looked at The Daver. Dressed in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I must’ve given him a look, because he said, “I’M WEARIN MAH EATIN’ CLOTHES.”

I’m not exactly certain when his Wisconsin-bred ass developed a Southern Drawl, but it was apparently the moment in which he realized he could eat as much BBQ as he wanted. For free. I’m sort of surprised he didn’t bust out my maternity clothes for the occasion.

I shoved a baseball cap on, so that I would be incognito with the hickish Southern Wisconsinite and off we went.

First thing they said when we walked in, “Is your name Dave?” Daver proudly bust out his wallet and showed off his driver’s license. He looks like the leader of the Aryan Nation in the picture, which made me wonder if they’d BELIEVE he was the same person.

Not only did they believe him, they also gave him a name-tag. I was SO JEALOUS. I love name-tags. I would have written “Shut Your Whore Mouth” on mine. I tried to score one from them, but was rebuffed because I am not ACTUALLY named Dave.

I sat jealously staring at Dave’s name-tag as everyone who walked by – also wearing Dave name-tags – said hello to Dave. A sea of name-tag wearing Dave’s sat in the dining room, each beaming as happily as The Daver was.

When Daver opened the menu, it was like the heavens poured out of his eyeballs, as he saw the amount of BBQ he could eat. For FREE. All for free. He happily chose some BBQ platter or another while I sipped my Diet Pepsi, amazed by the transformation of my normally geeky husband into a greedy BBQ-loving hick.

“I want ‘yer BBQ platter wif a side ‘o’ beans and cornbread.” I swear I’ve never heard him speak that way. But there he was, eating pants and everything, ready to take on the BBQ.

And he did. I’ve never seen such a small man put away so much food. When he was done sucking the marrow from the bones, he sat back, belched, and looked as contented as one can while wearing a stained tank-top and sweatpants.

I paid our check and rolled him contentedly out to the car.

He was in a food coma the rest of the day while I bitterly blamed my parents for not being forward-thinking enough to name me Dave.

Hey, Johnny Cash had a Boy Named Sue, I could totally have been a Girl Named Dave*.

*had I been a boy, my name would have been Leaf**.

**No, I’m not joking. Not even close.

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