<%@LANGUAGE="JAVASCRIPT" CODEPAGE="1252"%> Whisky Pants
     
     
     

Look, I'm not doing this for you, but for my own dark and twisted reasons. Oh, and because everyone else is doing it.

 
 

August 28, 2006

blogging from the heartland

My dad had the finest catfish dinner of his life on Saturday, while I had the most disturbing grouper sandwich of my life. The family was down at the redneck-tastic Lake of the Ozarks for a long weekend - which was nice. Except, you can't take a 17 month old and a six year old, neither of whom eat anything, out to a restaurant. So, you have to eat in shifts.

I accompanied my dad to a very hot local "eatery" called Shady Gator. Shady indeed. It was right on the docks, where a constant stream of sun-baked, bleached-hair speed-boaters were landing. Truly, it was a bar along the lines of the notorious (and possibly defunct) Florabama. The kind of place that puts a wristband on you at 5:30 pm, that is so dirty that only a good fire could really clean it. A place where you can feel comfy in your swimsuit, dirty hair, and hangover.

We had just gotten our food when the Tropicana girls started to arrive. Now, my dad is not a shady sort of guy. He's quiet. A retired CPA. So, he doesn't really leer. But I could tell his attention was elsewhere, so when I turned around to see about 12 lithe young women in very tiny red bikinis with perfect tans he said, "Sorry, they're just in my line of vision."

Then, the Tropicana girls started multiplying. All of a sudden our section of the bar was teeming with them! My dad was agog. "They just keep coming!" I felt very very clothed and pale next to them. Also, uncomfortable. As we departed, we heard the live act sing "I'm dreaming of a white-trash Christmas" (in fecking August!), my dad appropriately blurts out, "That was the best dinner I've ever had!"

I love being on vacation.

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