Tuesday, January 1, 2008
A Failure Patty on a Sadness Bun
There was a time when New Year's Eve meant you'd hear such phrases as:
'Would you prefer the early or late seating?'
'red wine or white wine?'
'I don't know ya, but I'll sure as hell kiss ya!'
'Those handcuffs tight enough for ya, honey?'
But last night, we crossed over into another dimension. Last night, we celebrated New Year's Eve in Cherokee, NC. Last night, we 'dined' at Back Yard Burger. Last night, we heard the phrase, "Put this number on your table and Coyote will bring your vittles right out to ya..."
Last night, a little piece of my soul died.
Ya see, we opted for the family trip to Maggie Valley, NC instead of the couples' trip to Vegas. We opted for board games and snow tubing over blackjack and Bellagio.
But, despite the fact that Back Yard Burger is actually connected to a Shell station, and despite the fact I was told I shouldn't get the "Veggie Sandwich" (at the behest of the night manager, who said he can't recommend it and still sleep at night) and despite the fact that we ate in a fast food establishment that in no way could've scored more than a 72 on their Health Department review, I still take solace in the fact that being with my family on New Year's Eve trumps all the debauchery, madness, and drunken revelry that could be had if my life were different.
Fact is, I don't like to drink much, I hate being around drunks, big crowds get on my nerves, and I never kissed any girls at midnight anyway, until Wendy came along, much less found myself in inescapable bondage to one.
So, here's to being more Cliff Huxtable than Hunter Thompson. But, honestly, last night at Back Yard Burger, I can't help but think that my inner Al Bundy surfaced...hopefully that's all that will. The blackened chicken sandwich had quite a good deal of backfire potential.
I'm not even really sure it was chicken.