Beans and Mary Jane.

Let me lay out a typical Saturday morning for you.

 
*waking up at 11am or so, horribly hungover.

 
“How the hell did a cat get into my house?” And more importantly, “How did the cat not wake me up when shitting in my mouth?” These are the two questions racking my brain. I must also qualify my use of the word “hungover” above. I haven’t had a really nice hangover since the morning after I made an ass out of myself at the company meeting in California at the end of January. And that was the first one in several months.

Special lady friend (kicking me to ensure my consciousness) – Take me to eat.

Me - I don’t have any money.

Special lady friend (kicking me again because of my stubbornness) – Yes you do. Take me to eat.

Me – I’m not hungry.

Special lady friend (in a very whiny voice) – Damn it, Beans! You never take me to eat. (Pout)

This little conversation happens about every Saturday morning.

Not yesterday. I woke up ready to eat. “Let’s go to Cathy’s”, I say, as soon as waking up and farting a couple of times, and then taking a humongous splatter-patterned “beer shit”. Cathy’s is a little “mom and pop” type place that is cheap, and the food is great. I can get a glass of water with my 2 eggs fried, over medium; with toast and hash browned potatoes for $2.99(plus tax). On this particular morning, it was quite apparent that I wasn’t the only one in town with the idea to “Go to Cathy’s”. The line strung outside, and we could see people jammed like sardines into the small dining room while driving through the parking lot. There wasn’t a vacant parking place anywhere on the gravel parking lot, sitting right beside the highway. If you have to come through my town, you’ll drive right past Cathy’s.

Without even saying a word, I get back onto the highway and we head to “The Back 40”. She knew where I was going, and didn’t even ask. It’s what we had to do if I wanted breakfast; and it was quite obvious that I was in the mood for breakfast. “The Back 40” is the same type of restaurant as Cathy’s, but it isn’t as good, and it’s slightly more expensive. Yesterday the food was great. While we were in there a younger couple came in with a little boy, who was probably about 2 years old (judging from his actions and speech). The kid had a big fucking head. His cheeks were fat as shit, and so was the rest of his chubby body. Something was different about this child. I was amazed when I realized he looked like a tiny little 35 year old man. If I were to baby-sit this child, if he cried, I’d probably laugh at him and think he was intoxicated or something. He was the funniest looking little boy I’ve ever seen. I could hardly keep my eyes off of him. The parents probably thought I was planning a kidnapping. ….which couldn’t be further from true.

It’s time I let you in on a little secret about ole Beans: I don’t like children. I dislike babies even more than I dislike children. I don’t want to hurt them or anything. Well, unless they are around me being loud; and even then I don’t want to hurt them. I want them to fall and hurt themselves or something. Last weekend, there was a 6 week old baby in my house for 2 days. I made it through Saturday without losing my mind. Sunday morning at 10:00, I got up and took 3 xanax. I jumped into the shower; and directly from the shower into the truck. I took a few hits of grass on the way to the little Mexican restaurant where I had a beer and 2 tequilas. The kid was killing me. It’s quite obvious that a 6 week old child has more mental fortitude than I do.  

We left The Back 40 and when we got home; my special lady friend did something for me that I love more than anything. She left me the fuck alone. She went off to see her kids or something, and I sat alone on the couch watching “Funny Farm”. That Chevy Chase…

It was about 5:30 yesterday afternoon when I decided I wouldn’t go to bed last night with out a plate of oysters in my belly. “Let’s go do something”, I say to my special lady friend. “What”, she asks. I say, “FAYETTENAM!!” So we went off that direction, planning to hit Dickson Street (the street right by the University. It’s a party there every weekend; with all kinds of music and such.). On the way over, we called the hippy, and he was just a street or two up from Dickson. He gave me the directions to “Tables and Ale”, and said we should come for a beer with him. We did. They sell $1 beers there. How in fucking hell can an establishment make any money selling “Honey Brown Ale” at $1 a pop? Every day they have the same special. $1 Bud Lights, and $1 Honey Browns. We had a few beers and went to Powerhouse Seafood and Grill (which was PACKED because a basketball game had just ended). I about cracked a tooth on what I swear was a tiny pearl. Is that even possible? Can oysters make pearls?

Anyways, I ate oysters, drank $1 beer, came home, and my special lady friend has just realized she doesn’t have her wallet. FUCK! Nevermind. She just found it.