On Hippos.

On a particularly lovely outing with PIC (my Partner in Crime for all of my new readers), I decided to embarrass myself yet again.

We were in the ritzy section of town where we had a coupon *SCORE!* for a free appetizer with entrée at a new restaurant.  We went in and saw that you had to select a pasta option, which started at $5; then you had to select a sauce option, which started at an additional $5; and if you wanted to add a meat, that also was an additional $5+.  So, if you wanted a basic spaghetti with marinara and meatball (yes, that is a singular meatball), the cost was $17.  What the crap.  Really? Really am I going to buy $17 worth of pasta? Highway robbery.  I’ll save that money for my Prada fund thankyouverymuch.

So PIC and I went to another restaurant where we ate ourselves into a carb+crab+lobster+wine overload.  I was reduced to one step above zombie.  (Not the scary kind, or the maple kind – that’s for you PIC; rather the heavy footed, swaying side to side kind of zombie that does not want to eat your flesh or any other food at the moment.)

This is when I got the bright idea to start roaming around to walk off what I affectionately referred to as my food baby.  PIC indulged me and we strolled about looking in store windows and laughing loudly at pretty much everything that passed us by.

Then, we came upon sculptures.  Yes, y’all, there were big bronze sculptures about the area.  Hooray! I love a good sculpture! This one was in an area filled with loitering teens.  In my haste and excitement, I screamed , “It’s a hippy!”

Now, what I meant to say was, “It’s a hippo.”

My PIC, ever by my side, pulled me by the arm and lead me across the street to a safe zone (also infested with large sculptures, albeit they were part of the actual building). She gently explained that I can’t call people hippies, even if this is a town notorious for such.  I explained that I was trying to say hippo, although the stench of hippy was quite rank….and why were they in the ritzy section anyway?

And this is when I stopped.  I realized my dumb ass just might have saved myself from myself for once.

The loitering teens were large.  At it would be possible for someone to conjure the word hippo when referring to the ladies and their gentlemen callers (as grandma would have said).

When PIC realized this hippy-hippo slip was likely in my favor, we laughed until we cried.  We ran from the hippy-hippos with nothing more than slight scowls thrown our way.  It’s a good thing too.  If I’d yelled hippo, I’m sure we would have had a fight à la Kill Bill.  My nun-chucks were in the car so it wouldn’t have been a fair fight.

Moral of the evening?  1) coupons are misleading, 2) sculptures can get you in trouble, 3) always carry your nun-chucks….just in case of ninja warfare.



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