I think I'm suffering from some sort of food-related post-traumatic stress disorder -- I know that when I go out, the food is going to suck, yet I go anyway. It's like I'm a battered spouse, except the one doing the battering is shit-ass food. (Okay, not the best analogy, but the best I can muster on a stomach full of nathan victuals).
We tried this new Irish pub tonight -- Dublin Square -- and, while it looked very nice, I might as well have stayed at home and eaten a bucket-o-turds. I got a Guinness, which was fine, but that's where the fine-ness ended. I didn't want to go for the fish 'n' chips because I was having a few diarrhumblings in the ol' fudge-factory, so I decided to go with the "lightly breaded whitefish." Mistake. The Old Lady got the fish 'n' chips and said they were pretty good. My fish tasted like it was dipped in a bucket of bubbling chum and then lightly passed through the ass-crack of a manatee. If I had stored the air-sacs of a rotten halibut in my cheeks for a month, my mouth couldn't have been any fishier. Did I mention it was fishy?
The Old Lady said the desserts were fine, but to me they just tasted like fish carrot cake and fish death by chocolate. For the next week, everything's gonna taste like I went down on a jar of herring.
And, well, there you have it, another splendid mid-Michigan repast. Next time I mention that we're thinking of going out to dinner, will someone please give me a virtual slap? Now if you'll excuse me, I have to soak my tongue and lips in lye.