Sheer Trauma
I told you I was going to write about pot roast. Sort of.Nobody makes good pot roast anymore in this town. One of the few places you can still get it as at a place called The Black-Eyed Pea, which is a chain of "down home" restaurants in the Southwest. So on Sunday I went to have lunch there.
The pot roast is good, and I'm enjoying it, and then I start listening to the obligatory restaurant pop-music loop, because it's loud, and by loud I mean deafening. Then I hear obligatory pop singer guy break out with this:
Would you tremble if I touched your lips?
Holy crap.
Dude, I'm trying to eat some damn pot roast. And my lips are trembling because it's Texas in the summer and it's air-conditioned to fifty freaking degrees in here. I don't need you to be putting the moves on me while my carrots are getting cold.
There's more. There always seem to be.
Oh, I just want to hold you
I just want to hold you, oh yeah
Am I in too deep?
Have I lost my mind?
Well, I don't care, you're here tonight
I'm trying to eat lunch here, man. Take your quavering voice and your heartfelt studio passion and get a room.
You want to "kiss my pain away?" Then get me some more iced tea. Running low here.
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