The “Essence of Emeril” is really his dirty laundry soaked in a large stock pot, over medium high heat, until brought to a boil. Then, it is reduced to medium low heat, covered, and simmered for 20 minutes. Next, it is drained, tossed with grey sea salt from the south of France, some red peppercorns, and a smack of ham.
Here I was, la la la, looking online for some knitting patterns because yes, I am actually 67 years old, and I came across THIS:
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the sheer horror of it. I swear this is the EXACT picture of every chi-mo alive. Look at the dull, expressionless eyes. The thin, yet refined molestache. The thick, yet oddly well-groomed eyebrows. The full, pouty lips…….? Terrifying, yet mildy attractive. Wait a minute! I know who this looks like!!:
*author’s note: the picture of Justin Timberlake has been altered. Badly. This is not a real picture of Justin Timberlake. Good day.*
Make fun of me all you want: I go to karaoke bars and sing. Terribly.
The bar me and my hip karaoke friends go to sing is a small, hole-in-the-wall joint that features $2.50 pitchers of Old Style every Thursday night. So in a word–sweetness. As with any bar anywhere in America, The Roadhouse (how awesome of a name is that?! Just like the Patrick Swayze movie!!) has it’s regulars. Ours is a kindly old cowboy named Chick. Chick is seriously 85 years old and dresses up in the finest cowboy garb available. 10-gallon hat, sweet Western shirt, Wranglers, osterich skin boots, and the huge belt buckle. Chick’s a real ladies man….correction; he’s a ladies man to all the ladies except for me. Whenever a country song is being sung, Mr. Chick picks out a lady from the crowd and proudly Tw0-Steps with them. He has danced with every woman in the bar except for me. Why? Because Chick is an asshole.
I used to think it was because I am chubby and Chick has a “no fatties” clause, but last week, he asked one of the regular karaoke singers to dance and she’s bigger than I am. And one other time, his song was playing and he was scanning the room looking for a dance partner, but there weren’t any other women in the room except for me and the bartender. The old son of a bitch was standing up, looking around, met my gaze, held it for a few seconds, then sat his wrinkly old cowboy butt back down in his chair and pouted. So I got to thinking; either Chick is scared of tall girls, with he being a rather short man and I’m roughly 5’11”, or Chick is so mesmerized by me that he is too nervous to ask me to dance.
It is my goal to get him to ask me to dance, then rudely deny him. See how it feels? Not so good, Chick. Not so good.