There are no Ribs

I may have found the answer to my rust removal problem: hydrochloric acid. The same stuff I use for taking zinc off steel before welding. It’s cheap, it’s easy to find, and supposedly, it works. So I’ll be giving that a try later.

I want to make one thing clear. I am not angry at the people who call me a tool addict. No, I’m just sorry for you. Because it’s so sad, that you think I have a problem. You’re the ones who have problems. You really should get help. And I’m saying that without anger, because I’m too good a person to let rancor get the best of me. And I’m fine, really. And…hey, I think I need a backhoe. I better check Ebay.

Call me “Nathan Hypertherm.” Apologies for subjecting you to Kennedy demagoguery.

Mike called last night. Thank God I was home. He was on the road in Lebanon, Tennessee, and he needed barbecue, and it was getting late. I offered to get on the web and help. Google offered about five restaurants in his area. I brought up a map and steered him to Li’l Joe’s Smokehouse.

It was just like The Matrix. “Operator, I need ribs. FAST.” “I got you, man. Take the next right and proceed three blocks.” Fortunately Joe Pantoliano was not there to pull the plug out of Mike’s head. Mike got to the restaurant right after they had closed due to slow business, and he persuaded them to sell him a pile of takeout. He got ribs and a barbecue baked potato. This is a potato stuffed with butter, sour cream, and pulled pork. He promised to email me a photo, but maybe Agent Smith intercepted it. Or even stole the potato.

AGENT SMITH: I’d like to share a revelation that I’ve had during my time here. It came to me when I tried to classify your potato and I realized it’s not actually a side dish.

MIKE: How about I give you the finger, and you give me my potato?

Actually Mike is more like Morpheus. “Mikeus.”

MIKEUS: You are a slave, Stevo. Like everyone else you were born into bondage. Into a prison that you cannot taste or see or touch. A prison for your stomach.

STEVO: I’ll take the blue pill. And this cheesecake.

MIKEUS: I’m trying to free your belly, Stevo. But I can only show you the door. You’re the one that has to walk through it. If you still fit.

STEVO: You can’t scare me with this Gestapo crap. I know my rights. I want my phone call. Hello, Pizza World?

Something like that.

It’s so depressing. Mike eats pretty much whatever he wants, and I had oatmeal for breakfast again.

Off to Home Depot.