Bad Food, boring conversation

I am back. Again, trouble on Friday made it impossible to post. Nothing major, mind you, but more of life's little annoyances. Then again, without them, I would be dead. Not sure if that is a good thing or bad thing, but I am sticking with the devil that I know. That is life. For all I know, death is one big party in paradise. The cost of testing that one is too high. It is kind of like being on "Deal Or No Deal", with one case left and $0.01 and $1,000,000 still on the board. It is an "all or nothing" type of scenario.

Can you see me betting on the death in paradise scenario and being wrong? Where would I be then? Dead, for one. Unable to post, for two. Then where would you be? Not having the pleasure of reading my rants and covering the boring minutae of my existence. How sad for all of you then.

I survived another meal at the Outlaws on Friday. Survived the mind numbing talk that passes for conversation. Survived the cooking of my mother in law that is passed off as food. It may be food, but it sure is not edible (by man nor beast, though my father in law and brother in law seem to enjoy it so what does that say). I think it says, good for those who do not know any better or for those with a scorching dose of the crazies and those genetically predisposed to those same crazies. I did enjoy some after dinner basketball with the lad.

I had to avenge my loss to him, four weeks earlier, at HORSE. The saddest part is that for the earlier game, where he beat me, he had banged his knee earlier. He was limping around that game, shooting with one good leg, and the little fucker beat me. It was embarrassing. At least, nobody was around to see and the Lad did not rub salt in that wound. Anyway, I beat him in three games of HORSE. Then, the running around must have jiggled the shit that was passed off as food in my gut and I was done.

She made these beef ribs. I know they are easy for her to make. It is right up her alley. Cook the shit out of food, no matter what it is. Beef, veal, chicken, vegetables, pasta all done the same. Mushy and without a hint of flavor. It all tastes like cardboard and has the mouth feel of mashed potatoes. Sadly, her mashed potatoes SUCK! They are dry and lumpy. Obviously, there is no salt, pepper, butter or milk in those potatoes. What the fuck is wrong with that woman? Who has allowed to cook that crap and not tell her it worse than Soylent Green (I am assuming that eventhough Soylent Green was made from people, it had some flavor). How come nobody has been kind enough to give her some feedback.

The best part is this same shit occurs week after week (and my father in law has the crazies????). She still says to the Wife that "I made your favorite." If she had opened her eyes and actually observed what the Wife, her daughter, actually ate perhaps she would have some clue. But no, not these folks, observation and analysis may arouse them from their delusional reality. That is one where there are no negative consequences and everything goes the way you HOPE. Notice, there is no action to bring about what you want, just hope (followed closely by disappointment when the hope, left unstated, is not met. This, of course, is followed by blaming the dashed expectations on others, though they were NEVER made aware of the expectation). It is a grand game of read my mind when it is convenient for me, but do not analyze me.

That is my life in a nut shell. I am expected to read minds, but not point out the futility of that course of inaction. I am not supposed to provide the wisdom of what I observe because that means somebody might have to change the way they think and accept that it does not work. Which means somebody else is going to have to work or put forth some effort to get what he or she claims to want.

All I want is a fucking good meal. It does not have to be big, but I know and accept that I will not be getting it there on a Friday, unless they have ordered in. In that case, it is only Pickle Barrel. They are some of the most unimaginative people you will find. Then again, she does not flavor her fucking food, so how can I expect her to try something new, let alone the man with the crazies?

He was vexed by a screw that he saw holding up the shelf on the wall unit in their den on Friday. He is sitting beside the fucking thing and the black (against the white unit) catches his hey. He says, "What the hell is that?" but does not get off his ass to investigate (not that he ever would, but it reminds me of the Wife in that she will "hear" something but sends me to investigate, what the fuck is up with that?). The Wife takes a look, tells him it is a screw and that seems to placate him. Until the next time he is sitting there and glances over, in which case that scene will repeat itself.

Ahhhhhh!!!!!! My life in reruns. Ciao!