So where do we go? Art or food? I think sausage counts. So thats an easy lead-in for The Apocalypse Hoedown. And I never did get my damn Pabst or indian tacos from Uncle Bucky's, just some room temperature fried chicken and a quick peep show. Brain bleach anyone?
Sticking with the art movement, we were able to sleaze our way into the Saturday evening showing of Burnt at the Steak, which honestly blew my thong off. Those big ass provelone balls aren't just for show. She's gonna rub 'em in your face while spitting some serious Guido lyrics straight from '99! Pasta fagioli! She sings like a bird, swears like a sailor and ain't too damn hurtful on your eyes. Best ogle her before she heads back towards cooler climes you eager beaver eaters!
Wait, this is still a food blog right? Hell yes it is! As pretentious as I can make it. And now with more pictures than is practical! To keep it under a mile long, all of the meals from tonight will be (poorly) pictorally represented. Then, after the hangover kicks in, I'll string together the words that will make the chefs and owners want to jab my liver with a frog giggin' fork. So before I embarass myself further...Pictures!!
I know! It's by pure intestinal fortitude and the power of Captain Scurvy's elixer of panacea that I didn't have to change the title of this piece to Barfing Deep In the Rogue's No-No Bits. I am well and truly stuffed and drunk enough to be a hazard to my fellow humans. So I bid thee good morning gentle-whatevers! Until morning and the inevitable and dreaded hangover.