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Nov. 10, 2005 People ask me all the time, "Why do they call you 'Beefy'?" Well, the answer is simple. I love to eat. And because of that, I'm Beefy. That and I love beef. And because of my unnatural love for beef and beef products, this scenario happened. My mom took me out to dinner for my birthday and the place she took me had a special on their barbeque meals. That was a mistake. I started with beer. You could probably draw a parallel from my love for beef and beer simply because they're separated by one letter. I start to drink and she does as well, but not so much because she's a woman and as we all know, women can't drink all that much. And if they can, you don't want to be around them because they're probably bar whores. I order a steak, medium rare, because the taste of the warmed blood to me is equivalent to showing me a naked picture of Sabine Ehrenfeld. Major wood inducer. After that, I order some barbeque sandwiches. Several, because they're on sale. My mom is watching in disgust as I plow thru the remnants of the steak and make way for the barbeque. I have blood caked all over my face, since I didn't use any utensils. I just used my hands. Takes less time, I have more control. The barbeque finally makes it's way out and I start shoveling it in, with barbeque sandwich shavings flying off of both sides of my mouth and hitting the people sitting behind me. Finally a lady turned around to yell at me, so I turned around to face her with a very determined look on my face, which was now covered in blood and barbeque sauce, and I have a mouthful of sandwich that I'm chewing on. Of course pieces of it were hanging out, and falling on my shirt. She just turned away. I think she threw up a little in her mouth. I continued to eat, grunting as I did so. It was a beautiful thing. I was eating the way cavemen ate. And it obviously worked for them, humans are still around, right? I washed the last piece of sandwich down and ordered another beer, since I was now empty. When it came I ordered a slab of ribs. My mother had already puked and passed out from the disgust I let out during the meal. What a loser. I finished that beer and ordered another one, and it came out with my ribs. I'm in such dire need for them both now that I attempt to eat the ribs and drink the beer at the same time. The result can only be described as one of the nastiest events to have ever taken place in that booth. Most people won't sit there now to this day. Because both didn't want to go down the right way, I started to vomit, while trying to eat ribs and drink beer. This was not good. But did that stop me from eating my ribs and drinking my beer? If you had to think about that one you don't know me well enough yet. I continued to eat thru small subtle streams of vomit. I finally got the ribs down and finished my beer. It was at this point that the entire wait staff shows up to sing their goofy little happy birthday song to me. Most of them froze when they seen me covered in blood, barbeque sauce, chunks of meat that I was now picking off of myself and the table to finish off, beer, and puke. But they started to sing anyway. This didn't make me happy because that shit is FUCKING ANNOYING. I didn't go to the fucking opera or a god damned concert. I went to a restaurant with my loving mother so I could feast. In the middle of their cute little gay dance and song, I started throwing my coleslaw that was left over from the ribs at them and grunting loudly. They all ran away, some screaming, and I was now happy. But it was at this time that I started to hallucinate from the vast amount of beef, pork, and alcohol. If you eat enough, that will happen. And it was at this point that I blacked out and only know what happened next from the descriptions that were given to the police from the other restaurant patrons and the wait staff. I got up from the table and rib bones fell off of my lap and onto the floor. I latched onto the light that was hanging above our table and started to swing back and forth on it like an ape on a rampage. I was throwing salt and pepper shakers and those little piece of shit dessert menus at people. It was at that point that the manager came out and told us to leave. I got down from the light and shoveled another load of left over meat and rib fat into my mouth that I had scraped together from what was left on the table and on the floor and I left. That's the last time I ever go there. Their service sucked. I hate faggy dance and song routines while I'm trying to eat. That's why you'll never catch me at one of those rim jobbing dinner theaters. |
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