Backwardsville

If my body is found in the next few days right next to nowhere, at least this post will give you some idea where on God's green earth I have been banished for an eternally long 24 hours.

I am sitting on a dog-eared edifice of plywood, padding, and polyester in what is the most happening joint in all of town, Cowan's Home Cooking; Est. 1933. A massive crowd of one sly dog in a 10-gallon Wyatt Earp hat is sitting across the restaurant slaving away over iced tea and his own mustache. Rather than lose my sanity by reading the expired sugar packets to my left, dig a bigger hole in the seat padding to my bottom, or count the vacant chairs to my right, I have decided to transcribe what could possibly be my last will and testament via my iPhone. For future reference, smartphones have not yet been discovered in this Hellhole, they still use what are called “walkie-talkie’s” and have just come across what is called a “dial-up” Internet connection.

Back to the tale at hand. I don’t know what is the ‘most-dead’ thing to eat in this prime establishment, therefore I asked Bertha, the spherical server what is the best thing on the menu. The following conversation ensued. And this is not an exaggeration.

Bertha: “Well, there’re alotta things you might wanna try. ‘Cept the only thing we can’t give ya is no steak.”

Me: “No steak? Shoot, that’s actually what I was hoping for.”

Bertha: “Sorry hun, the thing is, we ain’t shot our prized heifer yet. She’s still out in the pasture grazin’ as we speak. Once spring hits, that’s when we start slicin’ her up.”

Me: Vacant look of surprise/horror/repulsion/bewilderment/nausea.

Bertha: “Oh, and stay away from the chicken soup, it’s been sittin’ there long enough, it’s gone bad too.”

I took a whopping leap of faith and ordered the fish and chips. Ten minutes later and out comes my “home-cooked” salmon filet’s. Or as someone else might describe as Hungry Man TV dinner fish and chips. For crying out loud Bertha, my first bite tells me that my ice water is warmer than the insides of these undercooked cod. What is happening here! Ten-gallon Ted is snickering into his iced-tea and ungroomed facial clutter. What’s so funny old man? You’re lucky I don’t walk over there and say a five-syllable juxtaposition that would keep you and the town mayor in an unbounded conundrum. You two would be lost for weeks.

Back to live action. Wait, what’s this? Another customer strolling into Cowan’s curbside crap-dishers? An entire four people? This place is bringing home the big bucks tonight. And it’s not even Rodeo or Demolition Derby Weekend! The second that they walk in, I realize my entertainment for the evening has just been seated. As they open their mouths, this quatro-collection of twenty-somethings is giving me a free show.

Moron 1: “I can’t wait to get me a chicken-fried chicken.”

Moron 2: “Is that real chicken now?”

Moron 3: “What’s another phrase for takin’ a poo?”

Moron 4: “Oh look, a bendi-straw. I love bendi-straws!”

They then as a group pull out the following synonyms such as taking a duke, dropping off the kids at the pool, ridin’ the Hershey Highway, drownload a brownload, and going to have a talk with Mr. Hanky, while moron #2 mimics the latest Bud Light commercial by keeping on his sunglasses at night. Bertha comes up to take their drink orders.

Bertha: “What can I get ya’ll?”

Moron 1: “I want some hot chocolate. But do you do free refills?”

Bertha: “No, sorry hun, if we gave you a free refill on hot chocolate than we would have to give everyone else in here a free refill too.” (All of the empty chairs in the restaurant just had their hopes and dreams crashed and burned.)

Moron 1: “That’s no fair. I’ll just have a water then.”

Moron 2: “Water.”

Moron 3: “Water.”

Moron 4: “Can I have another bendi-straw?”

I have to get out of here and get back to my fecal-encrusted, jockstrap-reeking 20 x 20 prison cell with who knows how many types of wasted bodily fluids stained into the carpet, bed, sheets, wallpaper, dresser drawers, doorknob, bottled soap, mirror reflections, ice cube trays, ceiling fans, toilet paper, and images on the television. Why on earth did I forget to bring my jumbo-can of Lysol and backpack filled with ammonia? If I die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to send anywhere but here. Jumping into my car I see the single-digit I.Q. foursome’s car in front of me with the bumper stickers “I love drilling!” and “I love B.J.’s!” on the back.

In the restaurant, ten-gallon Ted and Bertha are still trying to figure out the word juxtaposition. My sanity is barely clinging on to dear life.

Location: In the middle of B.F.E.