![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Before I go any farther, I want you to know that this was written under duress. Several people threatened that if I didn't write about it, they would, and that their versions would not be charitable. In a while, you will read an indelicate quote. Don't get all defriendy on me. I'm warning you now.
A long while ago we decided that we would do a new thing every month. It didn't have to be crazy, like skydiving. It just had to be new. A new restaurant qualified.
The reason we decided this, is because if you leave us to ourselves, we'll always just eat comfort food at this Hawaiian BBQ place that serves everything on styrofoam with plastic utensils, and you have to get your own ketchup. It's cheap, which automatically equals John loves it, and everything comes with a scoop of macaroni salad, which is pretty much all Richard cares about these days. That and Rice Krispie treats.
We only do one new thing a month, because new things usually involve leaving the house, which is just asking for trouble. There's no reason for that kind of craziness, is there? Let's calm down and talk it over.
So last week, Richard announced that we were going to a corn maze in Livermore. Richard announces a lot of stuff. It's like every day is a Say Something Hat Day. By the time Sunday rolled around, a whole gaggle of us had decided that we were going. Other attendees on that day were:
Dust.
Hotness, courtesy of an angry Mr. Sun, who wanted to kill me personally.
Corn.
Sullen Parents.
Wailing children.
Other loudmouth jackasses like ourselves.
Cub scouts.
And more corn. Livermore is as fetching as the name sounds.
While in line to spend eight dollars to walk in corn, Bill and I had this conversation:
Bill: Blah blah blah something about corn blah.
Me: Don't the French make fun of us for eating what they consider pig feed?
Bill: Well, the French eat snails, so whatever.
Me: But escargots are good! They're just a conveyance for butter and garlic.
Bill: Well, corn is just a conveyance for butter and salt.
Me: Oh my God, that child just touched my hand!
Bill: Children are a conveyance for sticky.
Me: That child is positively adhesive.
Bill: It's something they naturally secrete from their skin.
Inside the maze, we discovered that maps were unnecessary. Everything connected to everything, and the maze pretty much herded you toward the end, with a series of directional stations that asked trivia questions. The answers to the questions corresponded with directions to turn, right and left, so if you picked the wrong answer, it sent you in the direction you came from. It was obvious. Also, all the correct answers sent us left, so no challenge there either.
What was entertaining were the questions. All of the stations had at least one biblical trivia question. Questions like:
Why did God kill Onan?
1. To have Onan close to Him in heaven. [GO RIGHT]
2. For being teh Juggernaut, bitch! [GO RIGHT]
3. For spilling his seed. [GO STRAIGHT TO HELL FOR KNOWING THAT]
Still, people managed to get lost. Children cried. Grown-ups looked dusty and bewildered. So it turned out that the cub scouts were there for a reason. They had the maze memorized, and if someone deep inside flipped out and collapsed in tears or started swinging at people, the cub scouts would scoot through to them and guide them out. Everywhere we went, there were efficient little cub scouts chugging around, helping people.
"Are they all working on their Corn Maze badge?" Richard asked.
"Maybe we should help them out with their cornhole badge," I said. It was a dumb, obvious joke, but I went for it anyway, because I've decided that upsetting Bill is my new favorite way to pass the day. It totally worked.
"DOOOOOON'T," said Bill.
"What's the matter, Bill? Are they too old for you?" asked Richard, which of course started up a spirited round of He's Too Old If*.
"He's too old if he can tie his shoes," someone said.
"He's too old if he can form complete sentences," said Richard.
"He's too old if he can tell someone what I did to him," said Bill, trying to get into the spirit of things.
And then I said, "He's too old if his pelvis doesn't crack when I mount him."
(*click* Defriended.)
After two whole seconds of silence, everyone moaned, and I said, "Oh, did I find it? Was that it? Have I won, then?"
"Yes, Matthew. You found the line, and crossed it."
"Good," I said. "Because the rest of the conversation was just so nice and shiny, and I wouldn't want... "
But at this point, I stopped talking, because the family of four— mom, dad, son, daughter— appeared from around the corner, where they'd heard everything, and trudged past us in horrified silence.
So, yeah. Just doin' my part, yo. Wouldn't want to prop up any misinformed stereotypes or nothin'.
Tomorrow we're going to a new Thai restaurant.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blakes_7 picked it out. He's still on friend probation, so it'll be a perfect opportunity to judge him.
(*By the way, Richard is always the white-hot center of He's Too Old If. It never comes up if he isn't around. Perhaps it's because our group's taste in men generally runs our age and older, while Richard's is across the spectrum. "But just because I date men in their twenties, doesn't make me a pedophile," Richard complains. And that's true. But Richard totally brought it on himself when he started talking back to the television screen when I lived with him, trying to get a rise out of me. "Think he has his pubes yet?" Richard would ask me off-handedly, about some child actor on the screen. Or during the Huggies Pull-Ups commercial, as the child's voice sang I can pull them on and off!, Richard would whisper, "Yeah. That's right. Pull them off." So Richard has no claim to innocence here, and anyone who takes his side in anything automatically admits to supporting NAMBLA.)
A long while ago we decided that we would do a new thing every month. It didn't have to be crazy, like skydiving. It just had to be new. A new restaurant qualified.
The reason we decided this, is because if you leave us to ourselves, we'll always just eat comfort food at this Hawaiian BBQ place that serves everything on styrofoam with plastic utensils, and you have to get your own ketchup. It's cheap, which automatically equals John loves it, and everything comes with a scoop of macaroni salad, which is pretty much all Richard cares about these days. That and Rice Krispie treats.
We only do one new thing a month, because new things usually involve leaving the house, which is just asking for trouble. There's no reason for that kind of craziness, is there? Let's calm down and talk it over.
So last week, Richard announced that we were going to a corn maze in Livermore. Richard announces a lot of stuff. It's like every day is a Say Something Hat Day. By the time Sunday rolled around, a whole gaggle of us had decided that we were going. Other attendees on that day were:
Dust.
Hotness, courtesy of an angry Mr. Sun, who wanted to kill me personally.
Corn.
Sullen Parents.
Wailing children.
Other loudmouth jackasses like ourselves.
Cub scouts.
And more corn. Livermore is as fetching as the name sounds.
While in line to spend eight dollars to walk in corn, Bill and I had this conversation:
Bill: Blah blah blah something about corn blah.
Me: Don't the French make fun of us for eating what they consider pig feed?
Bill: Well, the French eat snails, so whatever.
Me: But escargots are good! They're just a conveyance for butter and garlic.
Bill: Well, corn is just a conveyance for butter and salt.
Me: Oh my God, that child just touched my hand!
Bill: Children are a conveyance for sticky.
Me: That child is positively adhesive.
Bill: It's something they naturally secrete from their skin.
Inside the maze, we discovered that maps were unnecessary. Everything connected to everything, and the maze pretty much herded you toward the end, with a series of directional stations that asked trivia questions. The answers to the questions corresponded with directions to turn, right and left, so if you picked the wrong answer, it sent you in the direction you came from. It was obvious. Also, all the correct answers sent us left, so no challenge there either.
What was entertaining were the questions. All of the stations had at least one biblical trivia question. Questions like:
Why did God kill Onan?
1. To have Onan close to Him in heaven. [GO RIGHT]
2. For being teh Juggernaut, bitch! [GO RIGHT]
3. For spilling his seed. [GO STRAIGHT TO HELL FOR KNOWING THAT]
Still, people managed to get lost. Children cried. Grown-ups looked dusty and bewildered. So it turned out that the cub scouts were there for a reason. They had the maze memorized, and if someone deep inside flipped out and collapsed in tears or started swinging at people, the cub scouts would scoot through to them and guide them out. Everywhere we went, there were efficient little cub scouts chugging around, helping people.
"Are they all working on their Corn Maze badge?" Richard asked.
"Maybe we should help them out with their cornhole badge," I said. It was a dumb, obvious joke, but I went for it anyway, because I've decided that upsetting Bill is my new favorite way to pass the day. It totally worked.
"DOOOOOON'T," said Bill.
"What's the matter, Bill? Are they too old for you?" asked Richard, which of course started up a spirited round of He's Too Old If*.
"He's too old if he can tie his shoes," someone said.
"He's too old if he can form complete sentences," said Richard.
"He's too old if he can tell someone what I did to him," said Bill, trying to get into the spirit of things.
And then I said, "He's too old if his pelvis doesn't crack when I mount him."
(*click* Defriended.)
After two whole seconds of silence, everyone moaned, and I said, "Oh, did I find it? Was that it? Have I won, then?"
"Yes, Matthew. You found the line, and crossed it."
"Good," I said. "Because the rest of the conversation was just so nice and shiny, and I wouldn't want... "
But at this point, I stopped talking, because the family of four— mom, dad, son, daughter— appeared from around the corner, where they'd heard everything, and trudged past us in horrified silence.
So, yeah. Just doin' my part, yo. Wouldn't want to prop up any misinformed stereotypes or nothin'.
Tomorrow we're going to a new Thai restaurant.
blakes_7 picked it out. He's still on friend probation, so it'll be a perfect opportunity to judge him.(*By the way, Richard is always the white-hot center of He's Too Old If. It never comes up if he isn't around. Perhaps it's because our group's taste in men generally runs our age and older, while Richard's is across the spectrum. "But just because I date men in their twenties, doesn't make me a pedophile," Richard complains. And that's true. But Richard totally brought it on himself when he started talking back to the television screen when I lived with him, trying to get a rise out of me. "Think he has his pubes yet?" Richard would ask me off-handedly, about some child actor on the screen. Or during the Huggies Pull-Ups commercial, as the child's voice sang I can pull them on and off!, Richard would whisper, "Yeah. That's right. Pull them off." So Richard has no claim to innocence here, and anyone who takes his side in anything automatically admits to supporting NAMBLA.)
