Wednesday, August 28, 1996
Thursday, June 27, 1996
The Lobstress
I just got back from orientation at IU. Man, there are some hot chicks there. I can't wait to go down there in August. But orientation pales in comparison to what I experienced on the drive back to LaGrange.
I was riding with Pat Budny and his dad. On the way back, we stopped to get some lunch in a town called Martinsville, which is about 20 minutes north of Bloomington. Not really knowing much else in the area, the familiar glow of the golden arches called to us. Never before had I experienced such a memorable McDonald's trip. Not the various birthday parties I attended as a kid with those kegs of orange drink. Not the celebratory trips after LT football games. Not even last year after a game when Kellene Cada was hammered and everyone with her convinced her that her boyfriend died, bringing her to hysterics. Then again, I had never been to the McDonald's in Martinsville, Indiana.
As it was lunchtime, the restaurant was pretty busy. Pat, his dad, and I settled into a line that was about 5 or 6 people deep. The woman in front of us was unusually short, but not so short that she would be considered a midget or a dwarf. No big deal, I've seen short people before.
Then I catch a glimpse of her face, and I think she had that disease where you age really quickly because she looked like she was about 143 years old. No big deal, I've seen old people before.
When she ordered, "a cheeseburger, small fries, and a Coke," her voice sounded like it was a backwoods version of a half-munchkin, half-Corky from Life Goes On. No big deal, I've heard weird voices order food before.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see next. Up until this point, she had her "hands" in her pockets. But when she reached for her purse, before me was the scariest sight these eyes have ever seen. I shit you not, she had lobster claws for hands. Certain that my eyes were deceiving me, I looked for a couple seconds. Sure enough, her "hands" were not comprised of fingers like the ones you and I take for granted. No, no, it was as if her pinky fingers and ring fingers had fused together to form one prong, and then her middle fingers, pointer fingers and thumbs had fused together to form another prong. The result was two appendages that more closely resembled lobster claws than human hands.
Watching her try to count/grab change was priceless. Thoughts raced through my head as I tried to surmise the possible circumstances that led to the creation of such a being. Had a lonely and wayward seaman defiled one of his fair harvest, not knowing that his one night of pleasure with a crustacean would have such tragic and genetically perverse consqeuences? Or had a lonely and horny Martinsville woman working at Red Lobster succumb to the allure of an invertebrate's tough, but maneuverable, exoskeleton, only to realize 9 months later that she had made a horrible mistake?
Trying not to laugh, I looked down at the floor. Since I wasn't sure if either Pat or his dad had seen it, and I wasn't sure if they might find it as funny as me, I looked over at Pat. His eyes were staring intently at the floor, his left hand was covering his mouth, and he was shaking with silent laughter, trying not to bust out. Then I looked at his dad, and it was the exact same thing.
Maybe you think we're assholes for laughing, but the next time you see a lobstress, just go ahead and try not to laugh.
I was riding with Pat Budny and his dad. On the way back, we stopped to get some lunch in a town called Martinsville, which is about 20 minutes north of Bloomington. Not really knowing much else in the area, the familiar glow of the golden arches called to us. Never before had I experienced such a memorable McDonald's trip. Not the various birthday parties I attended as a kid with those kegs of orange drink. Not the celebratory trips after LT football games. Not even last year after a game when Kellene Cada was hammered and everyone with her convinced her that her boyfriend died, bringing her to hysterics. Then again, I had never been to the McDonald's in Martinsville, Indiana.
As it was lunchtime, the restaurant was pretty busy. Pat, his dad, and I settled into a line that was about 5 or 6 people deep. The woman in front of us was unusually short, but not so short that she would be considered a midget or a dwarf. No big deal, I've seen short people before.
Then I catch a glimpse of her face, and I think she had that disease where you age really quickly because she looked like she was about 143 years old. No big deal, I've seen old people before.
When she ordered, "a cheeseburger, small fries, and a Coke," her voice sounded like it was a backwoods version of a half-munchkin, half-Corky from Life Goes On. No big deal, I've heard weird voices order food before.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see next. Up until this point, she had her "hands" in her pockets. But when she reached for her purse, before me was the scariest sight these eyes have ever seen. I shit you not, she had lobster claws for hands. Certain that my eyes were deceiving me, I looked for a couple seconds. Sure enough, her "hands" were not comprised of fingers like the ones you and I take for granted. No, no, it was as if her pinky fingers and ring fingers had fused together to form one prong, and then her middle fingers, pointer fingers and thumbs had fused together to form another prong. The result was two appendages that more closely resembled lobster claws than human hands.
Watching her try to count/grab change was priceless. Thoughts raced through my head as I tried to surmise the possible circumstances that led to the creation of such a being. Had a lonely and wayward seaman defiled one of his fair harvest, not knowing that his one night of pleasure with a crustacean would have such tragic and genetically perverse consqeuences? Or had a lonely and horny Martinsville woman working at Red Lobster succumb to the allure of an invertebrate's tough, but maneuverable, exoskeleton, only to realize 9 months later that she had made a horrible mistake?
Trying not to laugh, I looked down at the floor. Since I wasn't sure if either Pat or his dad had seen it, and I wasn't sure if they might find it as funny as me, I looked over at Pat. His eyes were staring intently at the floor, his left hand was covering his mouth, and he was shaking with silent laughter, trying not to bust out. Then I looked at his dad, and it was the exact same thing.
Maybe you think we're assholes for laughing, but the next time you see a lobstress, just go ahead and try not to laugh.
Saturday, April 13, 1996
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