DrunkasaurusRex.com - October 30, 2006

For months now, The Girlfriend and I have been salivating over KFC's brilliant slow-motion commercials for its new--yet apparently already-- "Famous Bowls." For those who have not seen these commercials (I don't know how you could have missed them unless you are blind or in Iraq), allow me to depict through the medium of the written word the ballet that is the construction of the KFC Famous Mashed Potato Bowl.

First, a cumulus cloud of the most savory of mashed potatoes is placed at the bottom of a remarkably sturdy plastic bowl. Atop the cloud, much like the angels and cherubs of Greek and Roman legend, roasted corn and perfectly fried bits of KFC original recipe chicken perch themselves resplendently. While I'm sure you would agree that this is a Vision unto itself, a judicious drizzling of golden gravy and a sprinkling of three shredded cheeses complement it like a sun shower at the end of the perfect picnic on a hot, summer day.

If BALCO was in the business of concocting monster fast food
combinations, this would be in their portfolio under "CH" for
"Christ that looks good."

When The Girlfriend and I first saw it, we looked at each other wide-eyed and salivating.

The Girlfriend: That looks SOOO good. It's like a Shepherd's Pie with cheese on top!

DrunkRex: I know! I love all those ingredients.

The Girlfriend: Let's go get one!

DrunkRex: Nooo, that can't be good for you. We said we were going to eat better.

The Girlfriend: Yeah, you're right. It's probably loaded wi--

DrunkRex: I mean, if you really want one, I'll go.

The Girlfriend: OKAY!!

DrunkRex: No, we can't. We'll hate ourselves afterward.

The Girlfriend: Yeah, you're right.

We have had some facsimile version of this conversation no less than 5 times since the commercials began airing. We resolved to be each other's support system. If one brought it up, the other would quickly shoot it down, reminding the instigator of all the negative things that attended the purchase and consumption of a KFC Famous Bowl.

We were addicts. It's not clear to what, exactly, we were addicted nor who was the more vulnerable addict and who was the more stable sponsor type, and it really didn't matter. We knew full well that at some point in the not too distant future one of us would be just weak enough to green light the other's suggestion that we give it a shot.

That point came this past Sunday in front of two of The Girlfriend's good, close friends. The fall from the wagon wasn't pretty. It always seems to happen that way. What I mean is, the struggle is always greatest when you are amongst those who struggle the least.

The day began like many Sundays begin. We woke up leisurely, lounging around in bed for a while watching that empty-headed tramp from the University of Texas, Betty Nguyen, over-annunciate and fake-guffaw her way through the morning's headlines on CNN. Finally disgusted with our abject laziness, we decided to get up and go to breakfast, settling on "someplace different"; which is to say, we walked out the back door of our building without the slightest fucking clue where we were going.

The Girlfriend knew she wanted eggs and real crisp bacon. The Girlfriend LOVES "real crisp bacon." It's always "real crisp bacon," never just "bacon." She relates her request to the server with an urgency and timbre that says if you remember nothing else, you better fucking remember that I want my bacon real crisp. Usually she makes direct eye contact with whoever is serving us and accompanies her special order with a hand gesture that most closely resembles a closed-mouth sock puppet.

We go out to breakfast often and The Girlfriend orders "real crisp bacon" nearly every time, so this little idiosyncrasy of hers is not unexpected. Living in Washington, D.C., however, makes this simple, unique request anything but simple.

If you have never spent any time in this city, you may only think of D.C. as the seat of our nation's government and the home of the shit-ass Washington Redskins. You would be right, of course, but what you would have failed to realize is that D.C. is also home to the worst customer service in the entire country. If you are from a place whose customer service is known for being friendly and hospitable (the real South) or quick and efficient (New York), spending time here as a regular consumer might just be enough to send you on a killing spree through the city's middling eateries and retail establishments.

John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo weren't crazy. They were just sick and tired of having to wait in line at the Chinatown CVS for 40 minutes to get a prescription filled because the bitch behind the counter wouldn't get off her goddamn cell phone.

The Girlfriend gets borderline Malvo when she's had a long week (like this past one) and her bacon doesn't come "real crisp." When we decided on the restaurant inside the Hotel Monaco across from the MCI Center, I was relieved. The kitchen pumped out higher end cuisine and the waitstaff was, in my experience, both friendly and accurate (read: white women).

The Girlfriend ordered wheat toast, two eggs scrambled, and "real crisp bacon" [closed-mouth sock puppet]. I ordered Eggs Hussarde; hold the hand gestures.

"Anything to drink?" asked the friendly, accurate server. The Girlfriend responded almost immediately.

"I'll have a coffee and a mimosa." My ears perked up.

"Times two, please." The friendly, accurate server smiled at the restaurant-speak and made a beeline for the computer to place our order in a timely fashion.

Mimosas? The Girlfriend is not typically one for a.m. alcohol unless she's had a long week (like this past one) or we're tailgating. I was decidedly apprehensive. Depending on the crispness of the bacon, the alcohol was either going to get me in trouble or get me laid.

The bacon was crisp. Real crisp. So crisp that, on our way home, we decided to stop at the smallest and perhaps ghetto-est of bodegas in downtown D.C. to pick up champagne and O.J. for homemade mimosas.

Cha-ching

To be continued, Wednesday....

Posted by nils at 11:04 PM