Fat-Ass Mary, Blood Money & Wendys

So I am finally coming out from under this virus I've had and the weather today is abysmal. Cold, rainy and extremely dreary. It's been raining since last night at some point and is supposed to continue all night until it turns into snow. Thanks, Oklahoma, thanks a lot. I really love spending a Saturday afternoon huddled in the house trying to stay warm and dry. The last thing I want is to get out in this bullshit weather for too long and end up sick again. Blah. Oh well. I’m going to the movies tonight and Next is on MTV right now. This chick just instantly nexted a dude on the grounds that he looks like a toolbox and her new year’s resolution is not to date tools anymore. I bet she will end up with the dumbest douche on the bus when it’s all said and done. The more like a tard you act, the more potential you have on this show. And this other dude on the bus is obviously GAY but in denial. He probably hopped off and was like, "Damn. It’s a chick."

Ericka and I dined at our favorite Wendys last night in attempt to save money. As much as I love a good restaurant meal, it’s just not always possible to run up a big tab. It’s called the Bush economy. We are relegated to $7 dinners of taco salads, baked taters and a medium lemonade. It is what it is. This particular Wendys – oh shit, stream of consciousness writing here: this dude just got off the Next bus who looks a lot like one of my ex-boyfriends. She was smart and gave him the boot instantly. I mean, this guy looks like a version of my ex about 15 years younger and with slightly more style. But still like a cracked out Matthew Modine mixed with Satan mixed with Mr. Rogers mixed with a snail. Anyway, back to the blog. This particular Wendys is always full of a colorful mixture of oddballs. I don’t know if it’s the location or what, but you never have to wonder if you will see freaks. About the time I got there, several people left and then this strange family in a caravan of two vehicles rolled up. The mom came with one of her sons and the dad came with the other son. What pissed me off was that the mom gave me a random go to hell look and was all up in my car looking around like she knew me. Ok. Let the games begin.
Ericka rolls up and immediately runs to the bathroom. The family is in line at this point and the parents order nothing for themselves. They get two junior cheeseburgers for the kids and meanwhile, one of their sons who looks to be 17 or 18 keeps lurking over the mom’s shoulder going, "I want a frosty! I want a frosty!" like a damn toddler. If you are a full grown man, get your own fucking frosty, dude. Honestly. E gets out of the toilet and all these people pile into the lobby. People appeared from nowhere. These two kids were in line in front of me and they were dressed in that sort of skater kid style. Like part wannabe Goth, part teen angst, part wannabe skater punk, part 80s retro. Yet they didn’t even live through the 80s so it falls really flat. And they’ve never had a mortgage, a hospital bill, a 401K losing money in the stock market or a high-ass gas bill so the angst thing is a load of crap. LOL. Yeah, I know I sound like an old woman. Probably because I am. So these kids are standing there ordering half the menu. It was funny to me because Ericka had just been ragging on the Baconator being like, "What kind of fat ass needs that much food?" The girl orders a Baconator meal with a twisted frosty, whatever the fuck that is. I was like, "It’s probably called twisted because your colon will be twisted all night after you eat it." I don’t know what the dude ordered but they left with two huge sacks of food belying the fact that they each only weighed maybe 80 lbs soaking wet. The glory of youth, I suppose. All you get from junk food is oily skin and zits at that age. The guy gets to the counter to pay and sniffs his money– I say "his" loosely as more than likely it was allowance money he got from mom. He goes, "This money smells like blood." Mmmkay. Totally in keeping with how goth he thinks he is, he has to announce that his money smells like blood so we all get scared and wonder how he is such an expert on the scent of blood. I openly mocked this kid. I couldn’t help it. I turned to Ericka and was like, "Yeah, this is totally going on myspace." He heard me and asked what I meant and I was like, "What you just said is going on myspace. I mean, really. Your money smells like blood. Ok." So then he ices the cake by saying that his money "has probably been in the hands of a murderer." It doesn’t get much better than that for goofy entertainment in line at Wendys.

Ericka and I finally get to order and this dude working in the back on the fryer looks at the line that has accumulated in the lobby and he goes, straight faced and all, "We are getting killed on the frontlines." E goes, "Damn. It ain’t like you’re in Baghdad." To which I replied, "He could be next week if Bush drafts him." I’ve never heard the front line at Wendys referred to as the frontlines like a war zone but I’ll roll with it. Another teen couple wandered up and stared at Ericka like they had never seen a black person before. A guy walks through the door and E and I instantly take note. He’s totally rocking the David Beckham look: a nice suit, cropped haircut, clean shaven. Lookin’ good . . . until you keep lookin’. DBecks is carrying random paperwork (not sure if it was a job application or what) and his hand is all wrapped in gauze. Not like he broke it, but like it got fucked up from a stabbing or something. NEXT! Two construction workers came in and had dinner together. E concluded that one was gay and the other was a hick from Locust Grove.

We had a discussion about old rich white men inspired by an old rich white man who came in and tried to do a pimp walk. E referred to Dick Cheney’s friends as Dumbasses Anonymous and I said that there are a shitload of people in the world who could join that support group. All of my ex-boyfriends, for example. E starts laughing and goes, "There’s Mary." I’m looking around like I have no idea who she’s seeing and she goes, "You know, fat ass Mary" and instantly I knew she was referring to a woman we used to know. It’s bad when someone says your name, no one knows you and then they add "fat-ass" to the front and everyone goes, "Oh yeah, OK." It’s also bad when the main sign outside Wendys is advertising this new cod fillet like it’s the best thing. Grosssss. I said that fast food fish was either imitation fish or real fish that had rotted and either way, should not be ingested. E queried, much like Hamlet in his existential experience, "Who the *fuck* (pause for dramaic emphasis) puts cheese on a fish plank with mustard and shit?" Touche. I wouldn’t eat that crap.

Speaking of crap, fecal matters often come up during dinner conversation in part because E works in a hospital and has an abundance of bodily function stories. She uses the term bullets to describe the kind of shit that comes out in small balls and is jet propelled. So the next time you take one of those, you can think of it as shooting bullets. After eating a taco salad and a potato at Wendys, I didn’t have any bullets. I just had massive amounts of waste to unload. When you get sick and you’re on meds, you sometimes don’t have your normal schedule of the body working properly. So I’m sure it didn’t hurt to cleanse my guts.

I told Ericka about how one of my colleagues knew this hobo who froze to death in Tulsa during that really bad cold spell we had of like wind chills below zero. E suggested that people freezing but not wanting to go to a shelter should go to a Quiktrip since it has "safe place" written on the front. Somehow, safe place notwithstanding, I can’t imagine that Quiktrip would allow a gang of hobos to loiter in the store. Although QTs attract a crazier assortment of people than Wendys. Especially if you have to use the ATM in there. God help you.

Aiiiight. It’s about time to go sit in a scalding hot bathtub and relax for a while.