Hot Or Mild Sauce

Hey, I am back!

Yesterday was the Internet Blackout and the day before, was the doctor.  Good news and bad news on the doctor thing.  First he says that over the holidays’ I gained 10 lbs. around my middle section and I have to shed that, as my BMI (Body Mass Index) is something akin to a Caterpillar Bulldozer. (Which really isn’t any big surprise to me, I am scratching parts of my body I have not seen in five years anyway)  Now for the good news …. He said I was my perfect weight if I was seven feet tall.

Yesterday we were in town and I decided in order to “celebrate the good news of my positive visit with my health care professional” I would have some ribs.  I am fond of ribs, like them quite a lot I do.  On some days, I can eat my way clear thru a #3 washtub full of ribs, with a little fried Okra and maybe some fries.

We sat down and the cute little perky waitress came over to take our order.  The wife gave the waitress her order and then she looked at me and I told her what it was I wanted and then she asked, “What to drink?” and I said, “Oh, just bring me a Budweiser.”

This is the point where the story starts to unravel a bit.  Kind of like an airplane rushing down the runway at full speed, it finally reaches a point where it will either lift off or go on down a ways and crash.

Cute little perky waitress then says to me (I am not making this up) “Do you have any I.D.?” (might be worth mentioning here.  I don’t like people who sleep with small farm animals, park in the handicapped when they are not handicapped, talk in the cinema, and I absolutely cannot stand cute little perky waitresses on Tuesday nights that ask seniors for I.D., just something about it, that rankles my spirit)

I sigh, my sigh of complete resignation and repeat the order.

So I say to her, “I don’t have any I.D.  Bring me the beer.”

She then counters with, “If you cannot show me any I.D. sir (at least she got that part of it right) I cannot serve you the beer.”  Now I am not only hungry, thirsty but I am also IRRITATED.  Or as my grand-daughter is fond of saying, “Don’t get ugly grandpa.”  I am in Yukon, Oklahoma the Home of Garth Brooks, and I am thinking to myself, “Maybe she is some poor disadvantaged third-world country child, adopted by a world famous Nashville Music Star and is just socially maladjusted or something like that?”

The girl is not backing down nor is she serving me.

I inquire of her, “How old are you girl?”  She smiles, and replies, “19 years old.”  So then I look her in the eye and say, “Listen, I am 64 years old, I have socks at home in my sock drawer that are older than you.  Bring me the beer.”  She says … “No.”

Fine, I ask her to bring me the manager.

Long story short, we have this spirited talk, the manager and I, about “people who are or appear to be clearly older than sixty years old having to produce a stinking I.D. for a lousy 3.2 beer in the State Of Oklahoma.”  He apologizes to me and then has the girl produce the bottle of beer …. end of story.

Every day it seems I am “forced to add to the list, another name of someone who can kiss the part of me that goes over the fence last.”  It wasn’t like ONE BEER was going to make me a hazard in the city, incapable of walking down a sidewalk filled with cracks, or low hanging tree branches, abnormal curbs or other associated dangers.

I was just thirsty for a beer.

Now here is my question.  What are we cranking out these days, functional illiterates who have no conception of common sense in society or the workplace?  Clearly it is an insult to a senior to ask them for I.D. unless it is to prove a senior discount on a meal or something like that.

So that are it in a nut-shell Boys & Girls, another place that we can not go because I did not exercise my constitutional right to remain silent.  As it is my habit, I gave them the bird’s eye view … straight from the horse’s mouth.

Next time we will talk about the Bozo at Radio Shack that truly believes I have to give him a valid working telephone number to buy a pack of batteries.

I mean … Give me a break.