The other day, I decided to have breakfast at the local Snaffle House... an occasional guilty pleasure.
The Harsh Browns are one of the main attractions. You can order ’em scattered, smothered, chopped, and chunked. And if you don’t mind paying a few cents more, you can get ’em lathered, bothered, dithered, dunked, skunked, and debunked. But I usually skip over all of that, because what I want are the Crash Downs. Those bad boys are Da Bomb.
My favorite waitress - her name’s Jolene - wrote my order down on her pad, pen flying as she tried to keep up. “I want ’em dipped, ripped, zipped, and ’tater chipped. Also coated, degroated, bloated, toasted, roasted, boiled, oiled, and tinfoiled. But not soiled.
“I also want ’em bashed, smashed, slashed, and corned beef hashed.”
“Got it. Degroated’ll take an extra five minutes - that OK?”
I don’t mind the extra five minutes. Degroated is the only way to go.
Maybe next time I come in I’ll order the Mashed Clowns.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Posted by Elisson at 12:45 PM
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I have no idea what "degroated" means, but if it's anything like "descroted," I think I'll pass.
Meanwhile, ordering from the US government's interrogation menu, I'll take my taters slapped, sleep-deprived, waterboarded, music-assaulted, and nipple-shocked.
Write that down, Jolene. And stop singin' that that song yourself.
I will degroat you Americans with mine wockets! -KIM Jong Un, DPRK Dicktator & Degroater
"And stop singin' that that song yourself."
My bad. That should be:
"And stop singin' that dang song about yourself."
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