Karno's World...

I've moved Karno's blog here: http://www.facebook.com/karnosworld

Bill's Business Brain..

So I started a new blog for the other side of my brain. A cerebral outlet for my "intellectual" side. That's sorta scary, isn't it.

Anyway, if you want to check it out, http://BillsBusinessBrain.blogspot.com.

Enjoy!

The Macaroni Moose

What's better than opening a bag of macaroni and having it tear open and throw the noodles all over your kitchen?
Nothing.
No...wait...
...having your nine-month-old 115-pound "moose" start gobbling up the raw macaroni before you can sweep it up.
Yes, that's better.
No...wait...
...having the water boil over while fighting your 115-pound "moose" for the fallen macaroni. Yes, that's better.
No...wait...
...stepping in dog saliva in bare feet from where your 115-pound "moose" licked and drooled all over the floor while you scrambled to turn down the stove.
Yes, my friends, that is indeed better. Dare I say, the best!

LAWD! HE BIG!!!

"OH LAWD!  Yo dog BIG!

He nice?"

"He can be..."

"Lawd, look at them fools.  I gots five chilrens, and them two the onliest ones scared of a dog.  You believe that?  

What kind of dog is that?"

"He's a Rhodesian Ridgeback..."

"A what?"

"A Rhodesian Ridgeback..."

"Lawd, he big!  How big he gonna get?"

"Well, he's 103 pounds right now, but he's only seven months old, so...."

"OH LAWD!  You hear he say?  He say that dog seven months old!  

LAWD! 

Look at them feet!  

Now what kind of dog he is again?"

"A Rhodesian Ridgeback..."

"Well, he sure pretty. But Lawd, he big!"

"Come on you fraidy cats; let's go!"

"But Mama!"

"You see me here pettin' this dog. He sweet.  NOW COME ON!"

"But Mama!"

"I'm fixing to leave they ass...scared of a sweet dog. You believe that?"

"Well, we'll stand over here so your kids can go around..."

"You oughts to just let him off the leash...

I SAID COME ON...and that's the last time I'm gonna say it too!  

You best believe that!  Over an ol' sweet dog... Lawd!

"They ain't no snakes down there is there?"

"No ma'am. I didn't see any..."

Steak and Eggs

I had a meeting at 11:00 this morning. I eat lunch at 11:00. If I don't eat, it's not pretty. I thought it in my best interest (and the interest of those attending the meeting) to get some food.

What has six breasts and nine teeth? Night shift at the Waffle House.

Waffle House. Hell yes. Steak and eggs...and a Coca Cola--the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast.

I found a spot to park "Chili" (my car) that was away from everyone else...including the gigantic Ford F150 that pulled in behind me.

As I walked towards the entrance, a man got out of the F150 that followed me into the parking lot. 

"WHOA!!!" I thought as I took notice of him.

I scrambled for my phone to take a picture. He had a Rolex watch on one wrist and a braided silver bracelet on the other...brown leather shoes (and from what I could tell, they appeared to be house shoes...AKA slippers), and some ankle-high white cotton socks. AND to complete the ensemble, he wore pink shorts with red elephants emblazoned on them. (why do you think I snapped the picture...clearly no one would believe me had I not...)

I was about half a step into the finger-printed-glass door and...


"WELCOME TO THE WAFFLE HOUSE!" pierced my brain as all five employees cried out this enthusiastic greeting.

Wow.
Hello.

I took my seat in a booth next to the window where I could keep my eye on Chili.

"What can I getcha, hun?" the exhausted and disinterested waitress asked me.

With a hint of enthusiasm of my own, some sarcasm, and politeness all rolled into the tone of my response, I replied, "Steak and Eggs! And a Coke!”

After the standard line of questioning..."how do you want your eggs?...white or wheat?...hash browns or grits?"...came one of my favorite questions asked at the Waffle House..."How do you want your steak?"

Now I've been to Waffle Houses many times before. It doesn't matter how you answer the question, your steak will come out as chewy gray-brown shoe leather no matter what you request. If you say 'rare'...you get chewy gray-brown shoe leather. If you say 'well done'... chewy gray-brown shoe leather. (maybe next time I'll say 'raw' just to see what happens...)

As I prepared my response, I wanted to say, "What f-ing difference does it make...you're going to bring me back a gristle-filled gray-brown sole from the bottom of an old boot." But alas, I'm nice...especially to breakfast waitresses. I gave my standard answer, "Medium."

"WELCOME TO THE WAFFLE HOUSE!" the staff called to the young overweight couple coming through the door.


I'm assuming you can guess the sincerity with each salutation the five less-than-awake employees bestowed to each new customer. I'm also assuming you know how it works at the Waffle House. The waitress yells the order to the cook (who in this case looked like a recovering meth addict)...and through some sort of magic or advanced memory training, the cook remembers everything and prepares the food accordingly. The classic is...SMOTHERED AND COVERED!

As I watched the young couple sit down, I quickly found out why the left side of his jean shorts and the right side of her sweatpants looked so faded and worn. They sat on the same side of the booth. Her on the inside. Him on the out. Their asses were in full-metal contact. I imagined this scene had been played out many many times. The worn spots on their clothes needed no further explanation.

"OVER MEDIUM PLATE!" a waitress yelled to the cook.

As I sat mindlessly thumbing through the emails on my phone, the conversations I found my ears picking up were...well, equally as mindless yet significantly more entertaining...

"He's got allergies. We had to take him to the emergency room yesterday..."

I slyly glanced over to see the cutest little boy you could ever want to see perched in his thoroughly sanitized Waffle House highchair. His eyes were puffy from the Texas pollen, and I surmised his shirt and shoes were probably in whatever vehicle that brought him.

His grandparents were talking to the older couple directly behind me...

"...he is 14 months old. His name is Chuck. He lives with us. So does his mama. She's in school."

Grandpa continued, "At 14 months, Chuck is a whole lot smarter than his daddy. His daddy is a dumb ass."


"ONE BACON. NO DROP!" a waitress called out.


"His mama ain't married to the dumb ass neither." grandpa elaborated. "Him and my daughter started dating when she was 15. He ain't worked a day in his life. He lives with his mama. He ain't got no car..."

The couple to whom the story was being told was quite interested...or at least made a sincere attempt at seeming interested. So far their comments consisted of "Lawd, no!" "Dat's right." and "Datsa shame...a damn shame!" I must admit, I certainly agreed with their assessment so far...

Grandpa continued, "When we decided to go on vacation, we were excited to take a break from everything...but then we got to thinking. With our daughter going to the junior college for her GED, we'd have to leave Chuck with the dumb ass. We said, 'We ain't leaving Chuck with that piece of shit.'...so we scooped up Chuck and brought him along."

"Show 'em your muscles, Chuck!" Grandpa encouraged. And Chuck did! It looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone. His grandpa appreciated my smile.


"I SAID SCRAMBLED!" an irritated waitress bellowed to the disinterested recovering-meth-addict cook. He made no attempt to even act like he heard her...


Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pink-short-red-elephant man stand up and go to the register.

"WTF?" I thought.

Turns out he was done with his breakfast. I hadn't even got my Coke, yet Pink Panther Elephant was leaving. I think his total time in there was four minutes.


Chuck's grandpa continued his exchange with the couple seated behind me. I listened little; my ears strained to hear the important parts...

"We live in Arkansas. I bought a house there 10 years ago." Papa told the couple.
"No shit?" I found myself thinking.
.
.
.
"He had to write four different letters...again and again and again. Even if you write it yourself, you got to write four 'fo anybody listen."
.
.
.
"Let's say you gonna go to lake cooper...you best be willing to drive for 12 hours."
.
.
.
"That's 'cause I was standing up on this thing that was high in the air...and the guy kept calling my name...and he was swinging this pipe-looking thing. I wasn't 'bout to come down."
.
.
.
The last thing I recall from the conversation...
"I think I'm gonna go get me a job down to the post office."


"ONE HALF CHICKEN! ONE HALF CHICKEN!" the younger waitress called to the expressionless cook. (seems like she could have just said "ONE CHICKEN!" but what do I know...)


I was a bit depressed standing at the register to pay for my breakfast. It occurred to me I never heard "SMOTHERED AND COVERED!" shouted across the restaurant.

"Have a great day!" the beaming waitress enthusiastically said as she eyed the amount I scribbled on the tip line of the receipt.

As I glanced up to respond, I caught her smile. I theorized she was probably part of the night crew. Perhaps she and the cook had a little something going on and he spent all of their money on drugs so they both had to pick up extra shifts to pay the bills...or buy more meth...

"You have a great day too!" I replied. I turned to towards the door...


"WELCOME TO THE WAFFLE HOUSE!"