Waffle House Fights Terrorism with Diabetes

Heineken Pancakes

I have had a long week of 16-18 hour days and constant bitching from the customer trying to get the unit to baseload. When the weekend finally comes (which in a muslim country is Thursday not Saturday) I am geared up for getting sloppy drunk. A man-camp starts wear on you after a while; the combination of long hours, shitty food, and no women can make any man start to go mental. So when the opportunity arises to blow off some steam it sometimes can get a little messy. There is a poker game every Thursday night; I don’t play I just like to drink and talk shit; but anyway on this particular night poker table is heated. I use this as a great opportunity to get hammered, no pun intended.

We start to pound brews with this old timer. I’m going to hide this poor old fucker’s name and call him Spits; mostly because he makes a “brrp” sound every 10 seconds. It’s enough to drive you mental. He’s a nice enough guy but I can tell this poor cunt is way past his prime and is ill-equipped to handle the 5 am drinking sessions anymore. But he’s up for the challenge tonight fights going back and forth; spits is selling his tall stories of jobs in this place and jobs in that place

Spits: “brrp” You see I’ve been to sites all of the world you see “brrp”. I know how this business works “brrp”. You want to be successful in this business; “brrp” you need to listen here.

We just kind of ignore him and watch the poker game. Then out of nowhere; down goes Spits. And when I say he went down…he went DOWN. Basically did a straight legged keel over and landed flat on his back. No one was around him no one pushed him, no one is even talking to him, just all of a sudden, down goes spits.

Poker1: Jesus somebody better help the fucker.

Poker2: Look at your fucking cards you cunt, he’ll be alright…raise.

But he wasn’t alright he just laid there looking up a the ceiling glassy eyed. I honestly thought that this clown was dead. I mean we are in a camp in Algeria…if the guy has a heart attack; he is dead for sure.

Me: Dude, are you alright?… Dude!?

Spits:….arrggh

Poker1: Yeah, he’s all right. Let’s get some more beer

Waiter: Number one?

Poker1: No we want more than fucking one.

Waiter: Eh…sorry. Is finished. Beer finished

Poker1: … Crack open the cooler

Me: No problem

They put a padlock the coolers after a certain point in the night, maybe to discourage the same debauchery that was going on at that very moment. But anyway I found the largest stick I could in the camp and started to beat the lock mercilessly with no success. As I’m hammering away somebody whispers some words of wisdom in my ear.

Poker2: Dude just get a screwdriver.

Me: Ahh, the hinges, smart man.

Success, stolen beer for everyone, but now that we have beer we need late night vittles, and this night for some reason I had a hankering for pancakes, so off to the cantina we go.

Waiter: What is this pancake? I am Algerian. No pancake

Me: If I don’t see pancakes on my plate tomorrow there’s gonna be problems…Here, lets go I’ll show you how to make some fucking pancakes.

Of course this is Algeria and there is no pancake batter anywhere so I had to make them from scratch. Flour…check; eggs…check; milk…check; sugar?

Me: Sugar, where is the sugar?

Waiter: Sugar?

Me: God damn it. You know sweet, sugar.

He hands me a bowl of white powder and I make the batter and slap it on the grill and away we go. Luckily they had fruit and syrup. The first batch I wanted them to try. The sour look on their face was priceless; it was like I asked them to choke down a shit sandwich.

Me: Give me that, their not that bad…oh these are awful.

I went over to the bowl of white powder…salt.

Me: Dammit!!! This is salt not sugar. We have to make it again.

Second batch was a success and from then on pancakes were on the menu…you’re welcome.

$1000 and the Crazy Brownie Lady

As most of you know I went to Georgia Tech and my good friend from highschool Nate went to Clemson. Both campuses are only about a 2-hour drive from each other so we have both been to every GT/Clemson game since we were freshman in 1999. Two years ago when Nate and Steph came down for the game Tech was supposed to get slaughtered by Clemson and Nate wanted to place a wager on the game. While at a bar the night before he convinced me to bet him a $1000 that Tech would win straight up; no spread. At the time I figured I just threw away 1000 bones but its turns out that Tech won the next day. Not only did they win but they were leading most of the game. Which gave me the opportunity to scream “ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS!!!” at the top of my lungs into Nate’s ear every 10 seconds. He only paid me $500 and at one point in the year he had said we should go double or nothing on next years game. This past year my R&R happened to land right on Clemson/GT game so in preparation for the game I had t-shirts made that said GT Clemson with the date and ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on the back. Nate had happened to score an unbelievable parking spot right next to the entrance so we were able to walk back to the car and pound a few more shots at halftime. While I’m knee deep in a Powers bottle a mildly attractive 30-something blonde chick with a southern accent thicker than biscuit gravy approaches me and comments on my shirt.

Crazy brownie lady: Hey y’all what’s one thousand dollars all about?

I proceed to tell her the story

Crazy brownie lady: Can I have some?

Me: laughing well I haven’t won it yet.

Crazy brownie lady: Well if you y’all win can I have some of that money?

Me: What?

Crazy brownie lady: My husband just lost his job and you don’t need all the whole thousand dollars I just want a little. Tell you what I made some special brownies and I’ll sell you some after the game.

Me:…O…K

Lets be honest I lived in Atlanta for 8 years I’m used to dealing with panhandlers, just not well dressed white ones (sorry if that offends you but it doesn’t make it any less true). Tech did win the game but Nate bitched out of the bet so there was no money exchanged at all this year. As I return to the tailgate I see crazy brownie lady waiting near the car but this time she has a 3-year-old daughter in tow and a fist full of brownies.

Crazy brownie lady: Hey y’all!! Y’all won! Do you want some brownies?

Me: Yeah whatever; how much for two?

Crazy brownie lady: Twenty dollars each.

Me: What!?…Fine, whatever.

So I grab two out of the little girl’s hands and Douchie (J.T.) and I pound some brownies and we both come to the conclusion that there is nothing “special” about these brownies whatsoever. We start a game of cornhole (or bags) and try to phase out this crazy bitch. 30 minutes later I get a tug on my leg and it’s a 3-year-old girl with a huge platter of brownies.

Little girl: Do you want some brownies?

Me: No I’m all set sweetheart.

Crazy Brownie Lady: Its OK honey, he doesn’t want any. I guess he wants that whole thousand dollars to himself.

Am I getting guilt-tripped into buying a platter of normal brownies by a crazy bitch and her 3-year-old daughter? Luckily I’m a heartless bastard.

Lost in Translation II

Its been slow around here this week so I’m going to post a throwback story from my time in Tenerife. Because I know all of you are loyal readers you know that it is customary for a restaurant to provide a free “chupito” on the house after a meal. On one of these occasions I was really in the mood for an irish coffee. I am quite particular about my irish coffee and I don’t prefer it in the traditional sense and I don’t want any of that gay whip cream on it either. Coffee, whiskey, baileys…that’s it. I began to work through my mind on how to order this en espanol: coffee, café; easy enough; whiskey is just whiskey; pretty hard to fuck that up; but bailey’s is not so easy. My experience in Spain is that they normally do not have the common brands of liquor. So I decided that irish cream was a safer bet.

Me: Puedo tener un café con whiskey y con creama de irelandia (which I thought directly translated to cream of Ireland)

Waiter: Como? (the expression on this man’s face was indescribably awkward)

Luckily there was another patron near by that spoke English and far better Spanish than me.

Patron: You just asked for irish cum in your coffee.

Me:…What!!! Um bailey’s?

Waiter: Ah si bailey’s, no problema

So if anyone is looking for some irish man-juice in Spain. Now you know how to order it.

Number one! No Problem

For some reason no matter what nationality a person is or what primary language they possess if they don’t know very much English the first 2 phrases everyone picks up are “no problem” and “number one”. Coming from the perspective of someone who has struggled with foreign languages I understand that it is much easier to understand a foreign language than it is to speak it. So when you are in this transition period of language retard to borderline fluency you try to steer the conversation so you can respond with the words you do know. When you drink it gets easier and when you get drunk its impossible. So I want you to imagine a conversation where the person who are talking to understands half of what you’re saying but can only respond with either “no problem” or “number one”.

Me: Can I get a hamburger?

Waiter: Ugh …yes no problem.

Me: Thanks buddy

Waiter: USA Number one!

And so on and so forth. The reason why I bring this up is because I am amazed by how many conversations can continue like this.

Me: How can I get some girls around here?

Waiter: For you? No problem my friend, no problem.

Me: Sweet, are they good looking?

Wiater: Number one!

Me: Actually I’m looking for a girl who will do number 2 also.

Waiter: No problem

Me: Fantastic, you’re the man.

Waiter: You number one!

Me: I’m looking for top shelf though my friend

Wiater: For you? No problem my friend no money. Very very good sewha.

Me: Well where is this sewha?

Wiater: Number one?

Me: Hey I’ll take as many as I can get.

Waiter: No problem.

Oh man…Maybe this isn’t funny for you but I am pissing my pants laughing just writing this. Its just a culture thing that I find hilarious. It’s similar to the Filipinos and the “And then?”. But that’s another story for another time. I’m going to start pulling out some of my old stories from college and high school to fill in some of the lulls, check in next week.

Lost in Translation

One of the nights out we decide to go to a sushi restaurant for some grub and Jose brings his girlfriend along who doesn’t speak very much English. Before I go on, this story requires a little background from when I was in Tenerife. While in the Spanish-speaking Canary Islands I came upon a custom where after every meal the waiter would offer you a free “chupito” on the house. A “chupito” out there means shot. So I was under the impression that the Spanish word for shot was chupito. So after we gobbled up our sushi I asked Jose’s girlfriend “Te gustaria un chuptio” which I thought meant “would you like a shot”. From the sour look on her face I can see I have said something terribly wrong. I try to save myself by making a shot-taking motion with my hand “You know…chupito, chupito”

Jose: What are you trying to say?

Me: Chupito…you know; shot.

Jose: Oh…no my friend, here chupito means blowjob.

Me: Jesus Christo…Well, what’s the word for shot?(Apparently chupar means to suck)

Jose: We just say shot

For those of you playing at home, look in the mirror and make a shot taking motion with your hand and realize how embarrassing that is. I guess I should pretend I don’t speak any Spanish…well I guess I don’t have to pretend.

The Dominican

I will not tell you everything that goes on during my R&R’s; one because I’m shady and two to protect the innocent. But on my first 2 weeks off from Algeria I was looking for a place close to the US where I could blow off some steam and still save days for the tax break. I ran into a guy in Algeria who was from Puerto Rico and said that the Dominican is where it’s at. And he happened to know a friend that rents out his place in Santo Domingo for cheap…Sounds perfect, I’m not really a resort type guy anyway so I figure this will give me a bit more chance to taste some Latin flavor; so to speak. Anywho; I decide to go down there in October which incidentally enough is hurricane season. As I step off the plane the guy I’m renting from calls me and tells me is going to pick me up from the airport, his English is not great and his sense of urgency is even worse. As soon as I get outside the sky opens up to torrential downpour; like curtains of rain. As I sit outside the airport waiting for Jose for 2 hours while it rains bananas I can’t help but wonder if this was all a terrible mistake. But as I come to find this is nothing but true Dominican fashion and it clears up to leave not a single cloud in the sky, Jose shows up, and we are on our way.

I wanted to know what the locals do for fun in DR. So I pressed this question upon Jose and he told me that what they like to do on a normal Friday night is gang up to the liquor store, buy a few bottles on wine, and park their cars in the parking lot and blare their ridiculous systems. Seemed a bit high school to me but I was game. So we get a few bottles of wine and sure enough there are several cars with insane systems in them cranked up to near deafening level and the vibe was pretty cool. But things got interesting when a redbull truck pulled up, folded out to a DJ stand, and everyone synced their car together through the radio. At which point a stage was pulled out and they had a dance off by some deliciously scantily clad females shaking their ass in favor of applause. The girl with the most crowd support got to dance on a lucky guy in the crowd. It came down to two girls and the crowd couldn’t decide so they both danced on a lucky patron. I looked over to Jose and I see that he had a crazy look in his eye and ran up to the MC and spit some Spanish to him, and all of sudden…

MC: GRIIINNGOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

So they pulled me up to the stage while these girls danced on me like they were trying to make molds of their private parts in my thighs. As I previously mentioned I am a gringo and can’t dance a step so I just stood there and let this happen like I was in my own private strip club.

This place is awesome