“A restaurant.”
“C.W., you don’t know anything about running a restaurant.”
This idea was silly even by C.W.’s standards. He stood before me as the Gailard
Sartain character from the TV show “Hee Haw.” You remember, the dirty, fat, greasy
spoon cook. Well, want to guess what his latest adventure would be? Let him
tell you.
“A dining experience for the independent-minded.”
“Independent-minded?”
“Yep.”
“Independent … as in?”
“As in, ain’t no liberal doctor gonna tell me what’s good
for me.”
I said, “Oh, I see. And the name will be?”
“C.W.’s Lard Palace.”
That’s when the enormity of his dreaming hit me. “Oh, my. You
have gone over the edge for sure.”
“That’s right. I got the idea from a place out in Las Vegas.”
“The Las Vegas that is ‘the rational behavior capitol of the
universe?'”
“That’s the one. A place there features a sandwich that has
a mere, 10,000 calories. My ‘Lard-fried Cheesecake Sundae’ will top that
easily.”
And how will you get word out for this, … this, …this, ‘assisted
suicide palace’ may I ask?”
“Fox ‘News’ and Rush Limbaugh of course. They’ve offered a
free introductory ad already if I’ll …”
“If you’ll what.”
“I’d rather not say right now … corporate secrets and all
that.”
“C.W., what are you up to?”
“You won’t tell?”
“I’m embarrassed enough just listening. No, I won’t tell.”
“They think that they can trick First Lady Michelle Obama
into making a discouraging comment about the fare.”
“And?”
“They’ll run her comments nonstop.”
“And?”
“We won’t be able to handle the crowds.” He looked at me
with some element of pity. “Say,” he said, “you don’t know anything about marketing
to the simple-minded, do you?”
“I don’t suppose I do.”
“Just think about the appeal of ‘Michelle’s Mountain.’”
“Michelle’s Mountain?”
“Yep, Michelle’s Mountain.”
“And that will be?”
“A gallon of fries cooked in lard, covered with fried cheese
strips, and served in a bucket with a picture of old Michelle Obama done up as ‘Aunt
Jemima’ saying ‘Now don’t you dare eat these, honey,” on the side of it.”
“Oh my god.”
“Sean Hannity almost fell out laughing when I told him about
it.”
“I can imagine he did.”
“But we will have healthier fare.”
“Such as?”
“One I call the ‘Surgeon General’s Salad,’ and is it tasty.”
“I can’t imagine what it would be.”
“Oh, it’s like a regular salad except all the ingredients
are …”
“Let me guess,” I said. “They are fried in …”
 |
| Ain't your taste buds tingling already? - C.W. |
“Lard,” he said. “Exactly. They’ve already requested that it
be on the menu at the next NRA convention.”
“C.W.,” I said, “I think there is something I should tell
you.”
“What? That I have found the secret to all the riches I
need, plus that new computer I’m wanting?”
“No,” I said, “that I have read about the source of your
inspiration and people are dying from eating there.”
He sighed as if I had just announced that the moon is made of
molded bologna. “Don’t you see? That is what will make this place have
universal appeal. You ‘rationalaholics’ will love it.”
“How in the world would a place that serves fat-saturated
and cholesterol-enriched food to overweight and gluttonous people appeal to a
rational person?”
He shrugged. “Well it would improve the gene pool.”
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