I have absolutely nothing to say tonight. I think my one still-firing synapse was pushed to its limit, yesterday, during Miss O's party at the paint-your-own pottery place. I suppose it's not a bad place for a party -- the kids get to slap paint on some cheap-ass ceramic dogs and penguins and we don't have to worry about our house getting trashed. But A) the pottery ends up looking like shit and everyone would probably be a fuck of a lot happier if they just picked out an already painted piece, and 2) everyone has to wait a week while they throw the shit in a kiln and and make it still shitty but shiny.
It's like, "Hey, kids! Let's paint some pottery!! Okay, you're done? Great! Give it to me and then get the hell outta here. Go on home empty-handed, and then we'll call Miss O's parents to pick up all your ugly-ass pottery, and it's pretty much up to them to drive it to your fucking houses like the delivery lackeys that they are. Oh, and that reminds us -- Miss O's parents, you can write us that check for assloads of money now."
So yeah, forgive me if tonight's oh-so-witty repartee is more like repartain't.
Oh yeah, on Saturday we took the spawnage out to dinner for Miss O's birthday, and we finally bit the bullet and supped at "P.F. Chang's." What the shit is up with that place?! Six o'clock on a Saturday night and the place was moo-shu packed. Bizarre.
And it's not like the food was anything special -- it's like a T.G.I Changigan's. But the people kept pouring in the fucking door. It's official -- P.F. Chang's is where all the people we never see anywhere... ARE! It was downright creepy.
Though not as creepy as the desserts we ordered. One plate had these fucking fried eggroll wrappers stuffed with chocolate and, I don't know... mayo?, with a caramel-peanut-butter-toffee-bacon? dipping sauce. I felt like walking to the bathroom and dumping that fucker directly into the crapper. The other dessert, known as the "Great Wall of Chocolate," looked like a 5 pound cow's liver floating in a pool of clotted blood. Just fucking foul. Of course, Miss O, who up until then had eaten maybe "a" piece of sweet and sour chicken, proceeded to pretty much inhale 7/8ths of "the wall." It was quite a sight. We all sat there watching and waiting for her heart to explode or her kidneys to crystallize, but the just kept on spooning it in.
Of course, when we got home, she waltzed to the shitter and fuzzy-pumpered out her own Great Wall of 'Chocolate.' Talk about your cables to China! Made her old man proud.
All right, I'm done. I told you I had nothing to say. I'm going to sleep. Nighty night.