Today I have the pleasure of announcing the second round of our exciting triangular guestival. I'm posting over at Show My Face, Cate is posting at More Mindless Rambling, and Blognut is posting here. Our task was to tell our own version of "The Lobster Incident". When you're done here head over to More Mindless Rambling and Show My Face. And now, I bring you Blognut...
So here I am guest-posting at Mo’s, ‘cause… well… he’s letting me and it seemed like a good idea to defend myself. See… we’ve got this incident to explain and I know that Mo’s version will be all, “it’s not my fault,” and Cate’s version of the story will be all, “well, it’s not my fault, either,” and the truth is that it was both their faults and I’m completely innocent in this story. So here’s what REALLY happened:
The Lobster Incident
I’ll never learn, will I? All my life I’ve heard, “There are some people that you can dress up, but you shouldn’t take them out.” Admittedly, that comment was directed at me most of the time, but its meaning never really sunk in… until dinner with Mo and Cate.
I was psyched. I didn’t even care where we went for dinner; I was just excited to go. Mo wanted lobster, and by ‘wanted’ I mean ‘would accept nothing less.’ Cate just wanted gin, and well, you know she brought her own, right? She also pulled along one of those old-lady-wheeled-shopping-cart things, stacked with little plastic storage bins from Target. I don’t know what was in there, but it rattled like pills and she was keeping an eye on that cart as though it contained the NOC list from Mission Impossible.
When we arrived at the restaurant, Mo slipped the host $20 to get us in without a reservation. Now I’m pretty sure that the restaurant had severe reservations to seating the three of us anywhere, but the $20 did the trick. We got ourselves a table right near the kitchen and there was plenty of room for Cate’s cart so it all worked well.
After waiting an eternity, a waitress finally came over to take our order. Now I admit, I may have inadvertently upset her, but it wasn’t my fault. This poor thing looked like she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. My horrified gasp was out before I could do anything about it. I covered it up with a fake choking incident, and I think she may have bought it. Mo’s reaction was a bit more transparent. He threw holy water on her and said something in Latin. (I ask you, was that nice?) And Cate, well, you know Cate. She looked at the waitress, then looked at me, then looked at the waitress, then looked at me again. When she finally found her words, she said the unthinkable. “Am I so drunk that I don’t remember punching her in the face?” The mood was set.
We ordered drinks; I had water, Mo and Cate split a barrel of wine. What? I didn’t drink! (Shut up! It’s MY story.) We ordered food; I asked for a salad, Mo asked for a family of lobsters, and Cate pulled a frozen entrée out of one of her plastic bins and asked the waitress to microwave it for her. That last request got us our first visit from the restaurant’s manager. He insisted that if Cate wanted a microwave TV dinner, she could eat at home. I was so proud of Cate for not punching him in the face as she calmly slurred that she has severe allergies, is on conflicting medications, and could only eat certain foods or she gets ‘irregular.’ After some negotiating, a virtual trip through Cate’s large intestine, and another one of Mo’s $20 bills, it was agreed that she could eat her own food.
While we waited an eternity for the food to arrive, we sang pirate songs at full voice. At the next table were 6 fighter pilots (in flight suits!) who joined in our fun, and the liquor flowed. (I stuck to my water.) (Stop it! I will not tolerate your insolence while I’m telling my story.) Several times the manager came over and asked us to keep it down or we would have to leave, but Mo was never going to leave that restaurant without his lobster.
This brings me to the lobster incident itself…
When the meal was brought to the table, the waitress dropped one of the lobsters in Mo’s lap. Somehow the fates conspired for one of the lobster’s claws to clamp down on the poor fella’s junk. Mo jumped up from the table, knocking Cate’s microwave entrée to the floor, and sending my salad flying through the air. Mo was a sight to behold! Here he was standing there, slightly drunk, howling in pain, with a lobster clamped to his crotch.
The manager came running over to the table to find out about the commotion and all he saw was Cate holding onto that lobster attached to Mo in a kinky sort of way, and Mo yelling, “Get it off, get it off!” While I tried to calmly explain the situation to the manager, Mo decided there was no hope and took his trousers off in the middle of the restaurant. I’m guessing it was laundry day at Mo’s house, or the guy just likes free-ballin’, but you know he was missing his undergarments, right?
Horrified diners began to point, women cried, most of the men looked on with disgust, and the fighter pilots cheered. Apparently that was all the manager could take because he wrapped Mo in a tablecloth and pushed all three of us out the door, throwing Cate’s cart out behind us.
Needless to say, we won’t be going back there. Needless to say, we wouldn’t even be allowed to walk by the place. Needless to say, Mo went home in a tablecloth toga with no pants and isn’t allowed to have dinner with Cate or me ever again.
Needless to say, none of this was my fault.