So back we went to the same little Chinese restaurant as usual.

Only this year... things were different. First of all, everything was spelled right. I guess they finally caught on to why I would always pull out my camera phone at the buffet every year while laughing so hard I was crying. In fact, last year I actually saw them remove the "Apple Cobble" sign after I snapped that picture.

Then began their revenge in earnest: the food tasted like crap! It was without a doubt the most horrible Thanksgiving dinner I've ever eaten. Afterwards I was left trying to count my blessings in a prayer that went something like this:

"Dear God, I am so thankful for my family... that dragged me to this revolting place. I am so blessed with a beautiful wife... who is turning green from something she ate. Thank you for bringing my brother to us safely all the way from D.C.... although it would have been cheaper and easier to just poison him there. Thank you that my grandparents are still alive... well, actually hold that thought until I affirm that they survive digesting this garbage. Thank you that we have plenty of... well... er, food to eat. Thank you for making sure that I don't get any fatter by providing this putrid filth on my plate that is sure to erode my ability to taste and thereby ease my weight loss plans. Amen."

Here is a picture on the right of my grandpa praying after the meal. Either that or it gave him gas.

Actually, I'm really glad to have a picture of my grandfather praying. He's the family patriarch, and most of my memories of him involve him praying. Needless to say, he's a bit of a hero of mine.

(Though the old fart did remark that I had put on weight... grrrr... It's totally unfair how when you're old you can say whatever the heck you want and people won't deck you out of reverence or some such nonsense.)

But even through all of that, the revenge of the Chinese restaurant people wasn't quite complete. Even though we started renaming our dishes things like "macaroni and poop," and "poop on a stick," and "mashed pooptatoes," and "twice-baked poop," and "poopcan pie," they were still saving their worst trick for last. And I'm not talking about some offensive grade-school rhyme like "Me Chinese, me play joke, me put pee-pee in your Coke." (Although in truth I can't rule that out.)

No, I actually almost didn't notice their last bit of cruelty until we were just about to leave. That's when I looked up at the ceiling and saw...

What is that?!? Is that a year-old meatball?! Is it a bulbous fungus?! Is there any explanation as to what it may be that won't officially make it the most disgusting thing I've seen since the time I walked in on that morbidly obese woman in the restroom of that one Mexican restaurant where they get all cutesy and label the doors in Spanish which is clearly designed to dupe and traumatize twelve-year old gringos like me at the time? In short: no.

And then I looked around. There were effin' SIX of them! If I weren't already miles past nausea, that sight would have been enough to cover the room in a thin layer of partially-digested Worst-Thanksgiving-Dinner-Ever. Behold the others:











If anyone can offer an alternative as to what they may be, I'm all ears.

So to leave on a happy note, I did get to see my brother and sister and all. That's good. It almost makes up for all the variations of baked barf we had to endure. Here's Beeki, Cach, brother Brentski, Abba and Emma (grandparents), and Brentski's girlfriend Parisa.



God bless us every one.

*Buurrrrrrrrrrp*