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Honey and I set out Saturday morning to drive from the coast of that ocean on the right side to Atlanta, from whence we came. We had borrowed my Dad’s car, so as to better transport four bicycles. That’s right. Four. Our two “out-of-town” bikes and my parents’ massive sprongy ones. The ootbs are a cheap Ibex and my “old” bike that was replaced by the steel/carbon bit of loveliness hanging in the garage. The ootbs live in my parents’ basement (not that anyone cares about this, but it’s my blog. Skip ahead if you want).
Anyway, there are two ways to go from Atlanta to the Grand Strand in South Carolina. Freeway and not freeway. On the way in, we chose not. On the way back, convinced by an acquaintance, we choose freeway. We were pushing along I-20 at lunchtime and I suggested a stop in Columbia, SC. We saw nothing that appealed. Honey and I are trying not to eat any fast food. So, we needed them “big cities” and the glory of Columbia is found on I-26 (or so I’m told) not I-20.
So, we pushed on to Augusta. While it is true that suburban America is remarkably similar in chain stores, that can be of some comfort sometimes. For example, when Jesus is your barista, Starbucks is a welcome sight. Even a Starbucks that has been open only three weeks and you (being the scrupulously honest person you are) have to tell the cashier to charge you for an extra shot of espresso, because you don’t just get four shots because you want them. Shots cost.
Anyway, we saw a sign for the Garden of Olive and pulled off figuring that where there is a Garden of Olive, similar chain restaurants will occur. Not that chain restaurants are good, mind you. They just have some choices that are ok. So we drive up and down this street and finally settle on TGIFridays.
Save our souls now, sweet Jesus the barista. What happened at TGIFridays in Augusta, Georgia is surely just as clear a sign of the “end times” as frogs and locusts falling on our heads. Ok, I’m overreacting. But only by a little.
Herewith the problems:
TV in bathroom.
There was a TV in the bathroom. Above the sinks. On commercials. Only commercials. No actual programming. Honey said she couldn’t get around one slack-jawed girl of about 12 who was watching a commercial for a mortgage broker. 12 year olds in Augusta could have adjustable rate mortgages, but I doubt it.
Lack of shampoo.
The table behind us, of which I had an excellent view, had no shampoo at home. Rather than going to get some, they came to Fridays to have ribs.
Ribs, children eating them.
Children can have ribs, I guess. But a wet nap and hand sucking are not sufficient clean-up techniques. Especially when one apparently doesn’t have shampoo at home. Clean will never be achieved.
Cheese, restaurant pouring on everything.
Really, does every single fucking item on the menu need liquid cheese?
Cheese, so called “grown-up macaroni and.”
Which has ham and bacon and mushrooms. Still looks like mac and cheese (on the picture) to me.
Lettuce, school cafeteria style.
Honey’s mother used to work in a cafeteria. The lettuce used at Fridays tasted like the bagged variety sent to the middle-school cafeteria.
Hurricane glasses, collectible.
One can get cocktails such as Mudslides and Mango Margaritas in a take-home collectible glass for just $2 more. Collect all four. Put them in a cabinet. Invite people over to see them. Go ahead.
We left as quickly as we could. There are places in America worth visiting. There are places in America that are cheese free. If anyone knows any along I-20 in eastern Georgia, please let me know.
Meanwhile, I’ll be curled up under my desk. Sipping bottled water from my collectible hurricane glass. Call me when it’s safe to come out again.
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