It's easy to see why. The chefs put on a show for you2. They come out and cook the food on a grill right before your VERY EYES!1! and they do jokes like taking an egg and rolling it and then pointing at it and saying, "Egg roll." HAR! And then they chop up some veggies and fry them up and then put a piece on a spatula and fling it at you so you can try to catch it in your mouth, which I'm pretty good at doing, if I do say so myself, but why do they always fling broccoli pieces at me? I fucking hate broccoli of any kind, up to and including Cubby Broccoli, the guy who produced all those stupid fucking Bond movies, which I also hate, because you wanna know what the best Bond movie was? Help! And it wasn't even a Bond movie! And even though it was the best Bond movie without actually being one, it wasn't even the best Beatles movie of which it was one. Which should (in some convoluted way) give you a rough idea of just how much I hate Bond movies.
So anyroad, I, at least, can catch the veggies in my mouth, but then I'm stuck there with broccoli in my mouth and there's just NO WAY I'm swallowing that (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!1!). But I absolutely refuse to intentionally drop the flying veggie, because if I did that, how would I be able to make fun of Teh 'Bride when we finally convince her to let the chef fling veggies at her like 5 times in a row and each one hits her in the face, nowhere near her mouth, and her ears and cheeks get redder and redder with embarrassment and I laugh and laugh and helpfully point out that she catches like a girl!1!? And the final irony is, she likes broccoli and would eat it. No, wait, that's the penultimate irony. The final irony is I promised (in FN2) that this paragraph would be full of naked chicks and well-oiled thong-men and drunken revelry and I also implied it would no longer be about the pseudo-Benihana experience and it turns out that on both of those fronts, I lied. And that, as it turns out, isn't the final irony: this is: that I evidently don't know what "irony" means because lying to your readers is not an instance of irony. It more an instance of dickishness.
Kinda ironic, if you think about it3.
Anyroad, that's what we'll be doing tonight for Ian's 11th birthday. And I'll be spitting that broccoli out while everyone else is taking bets on where on Teh 'Bride's face the next piece of broccoli is going to hit. WIN!1!
Ran 6.8 miles at a 9:24 pace this morning and 6.73 miles at the exact same pace yesterday, which is kinda_____________________
ironic4. This puts me at around 970 miles for the year. 1000 miles, here I come5!
UPDATE!1! More Nonsene from SteveQ:
1 If you don't know what "chore" means in this context, you'll have to go back and read that Hillbilly post I linked to above. Sorry. The rest of the class had to do this assignment. Why should you get out of doing it just because you were sick or lazy or had better things to do than read the archives to my blog? You will need a note from you mother, at the very least, to be excused.
You really should read that post anyway, because it's a restaurant review of this place that's pretty close to us and it's called Hillbilly Hall and I ended up giving it a four-Cletus review, which is the highest honor I can give to a restaurant that calls its selection of entrees "vittles", not even bothering to spell the word the correct British way, viz., "victuals".
Fucking Brits. "Victual" is the kind of word you normally first encounter by reading like 18th- or 19th-century English novels, Tom Jones, or some shit, and so, as a teenager, you of course end up trying to impress people with your ever-expanding vocabulary because you're pretty sure no one else you know is gonna know that word, and so you casually slip it into the conversation at, say, a family dinner, saying, "My, what a repast of tasty victuals!" not realizing, of course, that something like half of the letters in that word are supposed to be fucking silent and so you pronounce it "VIK-choo-ulls" and then your dad — assuming here that "your dad" = "Teh 'Dad" — stifles a laugh and says, "Nice try, Glaveykins. It's pronounced 'VITT-tulls'." And you're convinced Teh 'Dad is fucking with you, so you say, "Like what The Beverly Hillbillies are always eating? I call BULLSHIT! Because I've seen that word and it's spelled vee eye tee tee ell ee ess and pretty much means roadkill of some kind, mostly possum." And Teh 'Dad, who back then was into his Irish heritage in the same way he's into his Catholic heritage now, informs you, in an obiter dictum, that it's O'possum and it was the fucking Brits who took the "O'" away in an attempt to deracinate and co-opt a noble and clearly Irish animal whose main skill is pretending to be dead in the face of life-threatening danger, but he also tells you that vee eye tee tee ell ee ess is just the American spelling of "victuals".
And so your attempt to seem urbane and knowledgeable ends up making you look lame and stooooopud, but do you learn your lesson? Do you, next time, LOOK UP THE CORRECT PRONUNCIATION of a newly-learned word before dropping it "casually" in conversation?
No, you don't. Because you're a fucking fucktard, is why. And so a few months later, at a backyard barbecue, you mention how something or other is "anathema" to you. But you pronounce it "anna-THEE-muh". Because, as I said, you're a fucktard.
Luckily, Teh 'Mom's there this time to stifle a snort and correct your pronunciation.
2 If you've been to a Benihana, you can pretty much stop reading that there second paragraph right now and skip ahead to the next paragraph, which I haven't written yet, because it will be full of scantily clad women, tastefully tasteless jokes, drunken revelry, and, For Teh Ladies, toned and well-oiled men in skimpy thongs and nothing else.
Of course, you can also skip that paragraph if you've been to Applebee's.
3 But don't. Because it's not.
4 No, it's fucking not!1! I really have to look that word up wunna these daze. At least I know its correct pronunciation: EEE-ran-ik.
5 That's what she said. But she was being ironic.