In Loving Memory of Gertie
The other night Keith and I went to a particularly foul restaurant and ate some grease. Keith ordered the Wonderbread/Chicken/American Cheese Gut Bomb Sandwich. I stuck to plain old tasteless burger. He ordered lemonade and discovered it was of the powdered variety, etc.
Needless to say, there were many large belt buckles, and we were not surprised. We were surprised at the rate of racial slurs we were able to overhear from our hideously upholstered booths. The “N” Word, oh my! was uttered so many times, that we stopped pretending not to hear, and began shooting mean and dirty and righteously indignant looks in that direction. Oh that’s right. Dirty looks.
Keith made me order a Sprite for him so that it looked like it was for me. He then drank some of it and spilled the rest on the table, spewing ice and fake cherry onto my burger.
The point is, the whole experience was worthwhile, because Keith finally figured out a design for the perfect tattoo. Picture this: an ostrich, regal and finely detailed, with the words, “In loving memory of Gertie” written underneath in an elegant script. That was worth the hours of agony endured by my intestines.