How did I end up there?

The worst decision I’ve ever made regarding Owl-themed restaurants

I don’t know why I did it. Honestly. I thought I had learned my lesson from the first experience, which had resulted in distended bowels, depression for society, and an exorbitant thinning of my wallet.

But for a reason that’s as unknown as the Tampa Bay Rays’ success, I decided to give Hooters another shot.

Ugh.

(That’s me, my stomach, and my determination-to-never-let-my-daughter-work-there speaking.)

I guess I can blame it on my friend Garrett, whose phone call jolted me out of a mid-day catnap and created a gnawing in my stomach. Or I could blame it on the emasculation I had incurred earlier yesterday, when, in yet another completely unfathomable move, I enrolled in a class called BodyJam. (For the sake of my remaining pride, I will spare you the gory details. Just think of any type of 20-person dance troupe, with mirrors, techno rap, and a coked-out instructor. Oh, and imagine it with only one guy.)

Ugh.

Whatever the reason, I realized that I couldn’t bail from Garrett’s invite. I couldn’t tell him that the last time I ate at Hooter’s, I was with a group of 10 testosterone-laced freshmen guys, all experiencing college in its fullness for the first time, all willing to go anywhere and do almost anything because, hey, that’s what college kids did, right? (Here’s lookin’ at you, Dad!) Plus, what red-blooded American male passes on the opportunity to relish scantily-clad women, hard at work to bring you, the ultimate chauvinist, a basket of delicious hot wings?

So with an hour-long bus- and train-ride under my belt, there were the doors of Hooters, glowing with televised sports and the waitresses’, uh, smiles. (In an ironic twist, we were actually seated by a Middle Eastern man. Not exactly to be expected, but I appreciate Hooters shaking things up a bit.) The bottomless pit on my gut, the relief of finally arriving at our destination, and the Cowboys-Eagles (replayed) game on the tube all convinced me that this time, gosh-darnit, I would actually enjoy Hooters. A taste of home, a friendly wait-staff, and some gullet-quenching wings would be the cure-all for the mid-week blues.

UGH.

Twenty grease packets (wings), two depressing conversations with the “waitress,” and one amazing moment where the Middle Eastern dude revealed he had no idea what Ranch dressing was later, I was wishing for nothing more than a stomach pump and a hit on the guys who started Hooters. I’m still recovering from the filth I shoveled into my mouth, and it disgusts me to know I have extras in my refrigerator.

And you know what the worst of all was?

I already knew the outcome of the football game.

Making the parents proud: Casey’s trip to court

I’m a good kid, right? I manage my time, juggling school, sleep, and showering, all while finding time to eat and update the blog, right? I would never do anything to end up on my Mom’s favorite show, “Judge Judy,” right? (Don’t ever call her cell phone from 5-6 p.m. on weeknights — check who’s on channel 12, and you’ll see why.)

If you answered “yes” to all of these questions, then, well, jeez, thanks, but those questions have no bearing on my recent court excursion. Yes, my knack for presenting misleading phrases got the best of me again — my field trip was for nothing more than a court report. Bet that’s not as exciting as thinking I mugged a guy, huh?

As I sat through the driveling and gavelling of the judge, the shrugs and shiftiness of the criminals, and the verbosity and (anti-)verisimilitude of the lawyers barristers, I couldn’t help but actually want to commit a crime, just to make things exciting.

But no, I sat dutifully by, jotting notes about “managing” versus “doing” justice. (All the while a bald, ’roided, shifty-eyed druggie kept looking over at my notes, and I was convinced he was going to knock me down just so he could have something to trade for cannabis.) The judge magistrate, red in the face, kept doling out sterner and sterner advice to the multiple drink-drivers (what they’re called in Australia), so much to the point that the final person to be heard broke down in tears while being sentenced.

...

Actually, that’s a lie, because that would have actually been something worth writing about. In reality, courts are little more than verbalized processors, doing in twenty minutes what my hard-drive could do in a half-second. All the Draconian stipulations, all the dour looks, and all the never-ending repetitiveness made me glad I never went into law.

Instead, I went into English, where I’m now writing about law.

UGH.

And of course, for your viewing pleasure

With Tina Fey back in full force, here’s a little treat for those who missed it:



(If you haven't already gathered, I think Sarah Palin is a succubus who has entranced McCain and will devour his soul if they defeat Obama-Biden. Mike Murphy and Karl Rove wouldn't have it any other way.)