Each summer, The Admiral (yup he’s a real Admiral) and his wife take Miss Carol and me out to dinner. We mow their lawn and watch over their place in the off season and they pull our trash cans in and, for whatever reason, they feel obligated to feed us.
They shouldn’t, and don’t have to, but it’s become a tradition- kinda like Christmas without all the lights and presents and stuff.
And last night was the night. Which is cool and all, but.
They chose one of the local restaurants that throws it’s doors WIDE open and screams COME ON IN ALL Y’ALL AND REALLY? BRING EVERYBODY WITH YOU ‘CAUSE WE WANT ALL THE TOURONS RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.
Miss Carol and me avoid these places like the plague during the season, opting for the less traveled places, the locals-only joints that stay low key.
But there we were.
And as wave after wave of tourons surged in around us, washing up against us with their loud voices and tiny touronites screaming for food or sleep or maybe slaughter? – I sat and wondered WTF? How did I end up here? How’d this happen?
But then I remembered that Mr and Mrs Admiral were and are very nice people and neighbors and it’s not like we coulda lied and said we’re busy. And honestly? After a coupla beers and a magnum of wine things were lookin’ up.
The screeching of little touronistas and the northern accents were blending and smoothing out and I found myself actually enjoying dried out snapper fillets, french fries, and our dinnermates yelling at us to be heard over the cacophony, spewing food and spittle.
Life’s good, right?
Didn’t sound too bad until the spittle. Gross.
Hey, they’re old. You hold their hands and hope.
But yeah, the spittle and drool is um, hard?
–>I thought for sure you were going to post a picture of Capt. George’s. (Bleh.)