As promised, Miss Verbal Diarrhea came back for dinner last night; but only because she and the boyfriend showed up with an eight-pound slab of beef filet which neither knows how to prepare. Now, don’t get me wrong, this gal isn’t all bad, but she can yap more than a chihuahua that’s pissed off at the mailman.
Sooooo… Bildo decides he’ll slice this beautiful piece of beefy glory into steaks, wrap ’em in bacon and put ’em on the gas grill. (It’s fuckin’ 35 degrees out there, but anything to get this over with ASAP)
I’m over here cutting tomatoes; preparing a salad; when she chimes in with, “I like my steak with sauce… you know, like dipping sauce? I eat everything with dipping sauce and lots of ketchup. I don’t like seafood because it’s pink. My Nanny always made us eat on the back porch. I might like bear meat… which kind do you like… brown or black? That’s a nice knife; all I have are the ones I took home from Shoney’s…. you know, the ones with squiggly edges? Your cat looks just like mine, except mine won’t shit in his litter box.”
Have you ever face-palmed yourself hard enough to knock yourself out?