Story Number 1: Rhonda the Honda has been raped! My car, which I treat like shit and completely abuse, was assaulted by masked assailants yesterday under the cover of darkness. I discovered her violation as I approached her this morning on my way to Andy’s. I am pissed.
Story Number 2: Andy and I went to Subway for lunch. I remarked to Andy that I didn’t have any idea what to order and I really just wanted to get behind that counter and make it myself. “Oh, Miss Beth you know my first job was at Subway. And I invented all kinds of incredible sandwiches unavailable on the menu. For every 4 hours you work, you get a free 6”. And I took advantage of that! I love me some Subway. That is until I quit…”
Story Number 3: Apparently, Andy has racked himself up quite a little SubClub card, a piece of paper on which one gets it stamped 10 times and then redeems it for a free sandwich. Some time ago, Andy had purchased his 10th and final sandwich. The official stamp, however, was unavailable. A hapless manager initialed the SubClub card and Andy went on his way. Upon his next visit to Subway, Andy attempted to redeem his filled card, and it was refused. According to Subway policy, an initial in no way bears the weight of the stamp. Andy had to pay for that 11th sandwich. “Ugh,” he sighed, “it sucks because Subway is the only good fast food. I mean, the other day, I got in this fight at Burger King…”
Story Number 4: It would appear Andy frequents the Burger King down his block with some frequency and has come to rely on Burger King’s “have it your way” motto. Thus, he requested his typical 99 cent double cheeseburger with 2 bottom buns and no top bun. Andy, I’m afraid, is allergic to sesame seeds. The woman behind the counter was unfamiliar with Andy’s request and thus ensued an argument I can only imagine would have embarrassed me to witness. “Isn’t that the whole point of Burger King?” Andy screamed at the hair-net clad staff. “I want my burger! My way! And I cannot consume sesame seeds!”
I’d been reading about this new Moroccan restaurant and bar on Haight Street, Maroc. As Joe and Amanda live three blocks from there, I’d heard it had a cool vibe and was itching to try it. Alex, Amanda and I headed over and settled into a cozy bamboo table. We ordered beer, wine and a fabulous assortment of Moroccan cuisine. Our waiter was gorgeous…and gay. Immediately, we began to flirt.
Maroc is cool inside and incredibly colorful, with bright hanging glass lanterns over the bar and multicolored silk covering the ceiling and walls.
Our food took forever to come, although when it did, it was fantastic. Other than the beets of course, which we didn‘t order. Sadly, gorgeous gay waiter is also retarded. We ordered beans.
Nope. Beans. We dove into our phyllo covered spiced chicken and lamb meatballs on jasmine rice while waiting for Pretty Boy to come and switch us out. Amanda and Alex don’t like beets. But in the interest of giving you a complete review and finding it necessary to take advantage of the fact that the retarded supermodel was taking his time, I tried the beets. They weren’t so good.
The beans finally arrived, as did some grilled flatbread, and that was spectacular. We were stuffed and scooted our chairs back as we sipped our drinks and listened to the same song over and over, apparently entitled, “Welcome to My Spaceship.” Finally, the childlike love of my life comes over and brings the check, wiping the table before he leaves. In his haste to scrub that table which I had apparently made filthy, he slides the knife right into my lap, no doubt sterilizing me.
Done with Morocco and ready to head home, we said goodbye and thank you to our idiot waiter, got lost on the way back to the car, and sang “Gloria” all the way home…