So Christians call this “Good Friday”. I don’t get that. In their story, didn’t Christ get crucified today? I’m pretty sure he didn’t muse “This is gonna be a good day!” as some Roman nailed his fucking hands to a cross. Sure, living in KAF ain’t exactly like being crucified but “good” is too strong an adjective for almost any day in this shithole. Most days just wash over you in a blur of meh-ness. How can a blog about that kind of glamourous life not be awesome?
So much for this place being a fucking desert. We’ve had several pretty severe thunderstorms over the last couple of weeks. After every downpour, I’ve been flaunting my extensive KAF experience and proclaiming, to anyone who would listen (and several who wouldn’t), that “the rains are over ’til November”. It seems the only people who heeded me were the North Line wobbly-pallet-bridge-building team as they removed their hastily constructed span just prior to the latest flood. Ya know, none of this would be necessary if they hadn’t put in that goddamn takeout entrance. Not only do I have to walk all the way to the far side of the DFAC to have lunch, I now have to circumnavigate the North Loch.
Speaking of North Line renos and how they negatively effect me, A suggested we go to lunch early one day because he had “to work at one” or some other bullshit. We got there at just about noon, did the forced march around the Loch and were met with a line up out the door. “Fuck! I told you! If we had come later, we would have eaten by now”, I bitched. Now that they’re down to one entrance and have long lines, some of you may have been heartened to see that they built a wooden roof over a portion of the outdoor area to, seemingly, shield the queue from the sun and rain. Have you noticed, however, the way the sluices for the rain are aimed underneath the roof and right at the line? I bet the guy who designed this is the same joker who, in M’s words, “programmed the coffee machine to give you 51% of a cup” each time you press the button.
Death by a Thousand Cuts
Not sure what is going on but maybe the US government’s funding woes are effecting the DFACs and, by extension, me. I went to pour some delicious HP sauce onto my plate to make my mince and onion pie taste more like HP and less like apathy and the bottle flowed like a KAF fed colon. HP is usually pretty thick and, upon tasting from the acidic pools on our plates, A and I both concluded that it had likely been “vinegared-down”. Not cool, Cambridge. And, at the Monti, D’s puckered expression of disgust and cry of “the orange juice is goddamn Tang” was anything but Neal Armstrong-esque. If you’re going to label something “Orange Juice” make sure it’s The Right Stuff. Oh, and what’s with not having salt and pepper on the tables anymore? That made me sad. I don’t know what the fuck sequestration is but I don’t think I like it.
Now That’s Entertainment
“Holy fuck, there really is someone playing a guitar and singing over there!” exclaimed M as we sat down at our table in the Cambridge. Two someones as a matter of fact. Sure, it was country music, which isn’t really my cup of tea what with me having graduated high school and not being a spitter and all, but it sure beat the hell out of the Northline’s recorded disco (Boogie Nights was playing yesterday) and rap (some song about being a douchebag was playing today). Kudos to the two talented soldiers for brightening up the otherwise dreary DFAC and somewhat effectively drowning out the incessant chair scraping noises.
The Tray Chronicles
Every time we eat at the Cambridge, M jokes “Hey, don’t drop your tray right on the floor at the Tray Drop Point sign. They don’t like that even though that’s what the sign says. Hehehe.” or “Ha ha, I wonder what they’d do if I just dropped my tray at the Tray Drop Point. After all, that’s what the sign says” or “You should drop your tray here like the sign says. No, don’t really do it, I’m just kidding.” One would think that hearing that “joke” over and over and over and over again would get tiresome and that one would maybe want to punch M right in the face or, perhaps, throttle him to within an inch of his life as soon as he started to utter it, in whatever form, for the 18 gajillionth time. Yeah, one would think that.
The Boy is Back in Town
Our company has brought one of our old regulars, T, out of retirement to cover for me while I get caught up on some leave in May. He’s here for a couple of weeks now to get
redisillusioned, er, refamiliarized with KAF life. I don’t think it’s gonna take him too long to get back into the right frame of mind. At his first KAF dinner in over a year, he opted for Cambridge’s pasta and, noting its relative unappetizing appearance when compared to M’s meatpie or my fish and chips, he remarked “I picked the meal that would disappoint me the least.”
As Fridays go, today was kinda Mondayish.
“He’s not the Messiah. He’s a very naughty boy” – Brian’s Mother