“I’m a hot, hot mama!”

“HELLO!”
“I’m a hot, hot mama!”
“I’m not ridden hard! This is my windblown look!”
“Jawohl!”

Sometimes you don’t even have need to look. Even when the bar is empty; even when you’re busy thinking about changes for the spring menu; even when you’re listening to a new cd – some things permeate all layers of consciousness and announce as bright and clear as a trumpet the presence of the Baroness.

“Hey! You mad, drunken woman! Someone out there is talking to you. Well, I just heard it, another horse’s ass whinny.”

Not just the Baroness, but the Baroness and Major Benjy. What else could one wish for at the start of happy hour? The whole floor show, loaded for werebear by the sounds of it. Now, this would have been a bigger issue for me in the past, but with the advent of a new health inspector in this area, Louise pulled a fast one on the Baroness. Louise claimed that a new health code had gone into effect which forbids anyone not scheduled to work from being in the kitchen. This has the lovely result of keeping the Baroness from hiding in the kitchen while when they are arguing or when Major Benjy gets drunk and gambles to his heart’s content. The Baroness asked me about this new health code before Louise had a chance to tell me about it, but it sounded like such a grand idea that I confirmed it simply by saying that Louise had mentioned a new set of health codes coming into play immediately.

Reports from the front today indicate that the Baroness is pissy, Major Benjy is cranky, and that they are working up to one of their truly epic floor shows. Hopefully it won’t result in her forcing him to go home before he is ready. Last Saturday, when things unfolded as such, they hadn’t been gone twenty minutes when he walked back in, much to everyone’s surprise. See, Major Benjy’s driver’s license has been suspended for at least the last decade. He had helped himself to the Baroness’ convertible and driven himself back down to the bar, though. When he told us he had driven himself in the convertible, no one believed him; Louise, J.J., Wakko, and I were like crows on a power line looking out the side window where he had parked the car. Realizing that he was facing ten days and several thousand dollars in fines if he got caught, he decided that it would be best to wait until after dark before heading home. Ultimately someone else drove him home, and the Baroness begged a ride from me yesterday so that she could retrieve the car.

“Major Benjy, back off! You’re biting everybody’s ass, and not all of them have their shots current.”

Then Mongo runs through yammering on to himself. On his way back through he stops and says, “You know it’s bad when you start talking to yourself, answering back, and arguing with yourself out loud. But I’ve been living here two years now, and it’s starting to rub off. I’m going native.”

All that can really be said in response is “Word”, which a certain lobster boatboy – J3 – was fond of defining as “urban vernacular for ‘I hear and understand you’”.

To that, I say “Double True”.