Friday Extra: Response

I was going to just put this as a comment to Brady’s last post but I decided just to tell the story.  Please stop me if you’ve heard it.

I think Jolene (my daughter) was about 16 or 17 years old when she and her friends, or maybe her mother frequented CiCi’s all-you-can-shove-down-your-pleasantly-plump-face pizza for just $2.99.

I had never been to the place and Jill and I really had no interest.  At the time, I had all of my occasional pizza needs met by Papa Murphy’s Take and bake.  A large one of those was usually all the family could eat and it was about $7 or $8.  So – it was actually less money and – oh my god.  Way better pizza.  Sure we had to bake it ourselves, but that was a small price to pay.  Heat the oven, throw the pizza in there, retrieve it about 10 minutes later, enjoy.

But after a few times of Jolene saying, “pleeeaze, can we pleeeaze go to CiCi’s.  Pleeeaze,"  We figured, “What the heck.  We’ll give it a try.”

Walking into the place, I was not surprised that it had a strict dress code.  Apparently, we were improperly clothed.  There was a Master of the House who greeted us at the entrance.  His distaste of my casual attire was in clear evidence as he loudly cleared his throat and reached for a pair of hangers.

“If Monsieur has no objections,” he said, holding out a grease-stained white tank top (wife beater) 2 sizes too small for me.  

“No problem,” I said and kindly thanked the gentleman for his help as I changed into the dirty undergarment.  The Maitre ‘d seemed to instantly approve as he made special note of my now prominently displayed “farmer’s tan.”  As long as he, or anyone else in there didn’t find out it was from cycling, I figured we was [sic] in the clear.

“And for the lady,” he held out a bright pink simple t-shirt with blindingly bright depiction of “The Looney Tunes Gang” on the front.  The words, “The Looney Tunes Gang” were magnificently displayed across the bottom of the timeless portrait of all your childhood favorites.  There appeared to be a tomato sauce stain on the left sleeve of the top.

Jill was also thankful for the preparedness of the Cici’s staff as she pulled on the shirt. 

“Didn’t I tell you this place was great!” Jolene beamed with pride having been given the opportunity to introduce us to a new dining experience for once.

Abe and Jack were thrilled. 

So after we paid our $9 or whatever (I think Jack and Abe were not charged), we were free to “Belly up to the pizza trough”.  The feed area was separated into roughly 2 sections.  Going from right to left, there was a clearly delineated area starting with all of the “Salad” stuff.  After the various dressings and toppings, was where things got real.  The Pizza section.

With the exception of 1 or 2 trips to Godfather’s years ago, all of my previous pizza buffet experience was at Valentino’s.  At Valentino’s there are about 1000 sections of all-you-can-eat crap.  You just step up to the one you’re interested in and start piling meal onto your plate.  There’s not some set order.  No “rules of engagement” that if left unheeded may result in your extermination.

But we weren’t at Valentino’s.  Luckily for me, my complete disregard for propriety was met that day, not with immediate action, but more of a stern warning.  Whew!

There was a small line of people starting at the salad bar.  There was nobody at that point getting any pizza.  I never get salad when I go to an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet.  It seems kind of stupid to me.  I would not have considered standing in line behind all of the people piling up their plates with lettuce, mayo and potatoes to get to the pizza part. 

So I just stepped in front of everyone and starting loading my plate with pizza. 

The woman at the “front” of the food line was still cramming her plate with various types of pasta and potato salad when she looked up and saw me at the pizza section.

I was not in her way nor was I slowing her down.  She stopped what she was doing and glared at me.  She was about 5’4” and 280 LBS.  In other words, she was a big pleasantly plump fucking slob.  Her hair was cut about chin length and was an impossible white of bleach-blond.  It was burned into a frizzy dryness that made it look like a good breeze would snap most of it off.  She was wearing a pink t-shirt with some depiction of Porky Pig waving to the world.  The caption beneath the drawing, made spherical by her morbidly obese form, read “Th, th, that’s all Folks!”

After she saw that she had captured my attention, she turned to her partner.  A man about 5’2” tall weighing about 94 lbs, with stringy filthy hair and a perfectly unwashed white cotton tank top (wife beater). He had on a pair of blue denim jeans, made dark from weeks of wear down at the auto-shop.  Through one of the belt loops was attached a huge ring with 700 keys jangling from it.

“That’s how mother-fuckers get shot,” she pointed out to her grimy friend, who nodded in agreement, but I could tell he was admiring my farmer’s tan.

I was so thrilled by the insight into the way other people think, I rushed back to the table to tell Jill and the kids about it. 

If you ever wonder how some people get so pleasantly plump, the answer is that they murder anyone they perceive to slow them down from getting their next bite of food.  Should you be between one of these people and a sandwich when their blood sugar drops below say, 200 or so – well, let’s just say you take your life into your own hands if you don’t nimbly move out of the way as they slowly waddle towards you, huffing and puffing, clutching their chest, etc.

 … And Scene!!!