The One In Which Catfish Slaps Me

Madge, Catfish and I, along with our spouses, took Madge's exchange student (Annyong) to Hooters on Sunday night for dinner. Do I need to even tell you that this was an unmitigated disaster or is it just implied?

I mean, we all knew it was a bad idea when we were picking places to eat. We just didn't think it would take the form of horrible service and five-year-old Madgette proclaiming, and I quote, "I want to be a Hooters girl! I like the outfits!"

No, we all thought it would end with us explaining to Annyong about the double meaning of the restaurant's name, which I had already determined could be summed up in four words: Less owl, more tits.

But alas, Annyong didn't even notice the scantily clad waitresses or their qualifications to work there. (And trust me, a couple of those girls had impressive resumes, if you get what I'm saying.)

It was the one-hour wait for our food to arrive that broke us down.

I mean, come on! An hour! Seriously? What were they doing? Genetically cloning a chicken before we could get our Buffalo wings? Honestly, I'm pretty sure I have ADD and I can only sit still for so long in one place before I HAVE to find ways to entertain myself. Last night, I thought shooting spitballs at Madgette from all the way across the table was the funniest thing I have ever done in my entire life. I wasn't a very good shot, but it didn't matter. I was so annoying that I thought the child was going to come across the table, grab my face in her hands and in a mom-voice say: "Look, it is time we settled down. DO? YOU? UN-DER-STAND?"

But before Madgette could seek revenge, I made a fatal mistake. While blowing out an exceptionally wet spitball, I accidentally crop-dusted Catfish in the face, mouth and arms with my spittle. Catfish – who is a longtime GERMAPHOBE – took this rather well. There was a time in her life when she would have had to burn the clothes she was wearing and boiled herself in a vat of bleach to get the germs. I don't know if she's taking up a new mellow Rastafarian lifestyle or what but the way she handled it made me think she was ready for a direct assault, not an innocent ricocheted ball of spit.

So I put an entire lemon wedge in my mouth and started smiling at her like I was showing off my newest set of dentures. I could tell by the look in her eyes that the mere thought of my putting the entire lemon, peel and all, into my mouth was horrifying. No telling what kind of bacteria lurked there. Despite her heart wanting to panic, Catfish hung in there, not running away screeching. And having not pushed her completely OVER the edge, I decided to swoop down into a full on lemon kiss right on her mouth – a true test of her strength.

That's when SlapFest 08 started.

It only took 25 years, but Catfish finally got enough of my shit and resorted to physical violence. She was so fast and catlike that I didn't even have time to blink before she had raised her hand and delivered the faithful bitch smack across my cheek.

And the Aggie's only response to my lifelong friend, slapping me in a crowded restaurant with scantily clad women and one confused Korean exchange student: "You totally deserved that."

Touché, Catfish. Touché.

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Coming this week to mommapug.com:

Annyong and Mysterious Death of Lucky the Cat
Why Michael Phelps Rocks Out With His Cock Out
and
Childhood Memories: The Time Pawpaw Bribed Me With $50