Remember awhile back when Jason and I saw the horror that would result if we reproduced? Apparently, we are either gluttons for punishment or don’t mind unleashing demon spawn unto the world, because during our last trip to Dave & Buster’s, we tried again.
This time the machine seemed more advanced, giving us better options than “Freaky” and “Dear God, what is THAT?” for our children’s attributes. For our first child, we chose a daughter. With brown hair. Following the instructions exactly, lest we cause the end of civilization just because our eyes weren’t properly aligned on the computer screen, we grimly watched the computer calculate our facial construction, creating an elaborate, Byzantine face map from which our precious daughter would be born.
Here she is:
OK. She’s not too bad, if you excuse the inexplicable side ponytail and the pointy werewolf teeth. If you can overlook that, she might even be described as “cute.” If someone is forcing you to say that with a gun pointed to your head as several rabid wolf-dogs are eyeing your pants of meat.
Slightly encouraged, we tried for a boy. We specifically asked for brown hair. Let me repeat that, because it’s an important plot point that comes up later. Brown hair.
And, well, let’s just get to it, shall we?
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Awhile back, I complained mightily about the absence of a Dave & Buster’s restaurant in my general geographic vicinity. Obviously, someone in management at Dave & Buster’s read this site and sprang into action, because only 10 minutes away a big beacon of beautifulness has been erected.
That’s right: a shiny new Dave & Buster’s.
Jason took me there last weekend as a surprise. That day quickly became known as the “Best Day Ever.” Because I am eight. And apparently, very easy to please.
Anyway, D&Bs had wonderful food; everything on their menu, including every item on the drink menu, looked delicious. For a sports nut like me, there was a wall of TVs available for football watching; for the more discerning diner, an elegantly decorated dining area. And for the child in me, or I suppose, actual children, a giant arcade area with skeeball and trivia games and games that spit out tickets to be redeemed for useless but attractive crap.
No shuffleboard though.
But that’s OK. They had pool tables. Which I intend to play during my next 2314097097 visits.
Rating: 5 out of 5 pickles
P.S. I now fully intend to use my newfound restaurant-erecting powers to wish for a Jimmy John’s to go into one of the strip mall units for lease sitting vacant a mere three blocks from my house. Please god, make it so.
I wanted something holiday-themed, but nothing too extravagant. The hardest part was finding an image that complemented the site’s colors. I lucked out with the sleigh and made my own snowflake online to incorporate into the background. A few clumsy additions – the pickles and the dime – completed this effort.
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Only 12 days until Christmas. A snowless, brown, 40-degree Christmas. What can be better? A 50-degree Christmas.
I know what you’re thinking, “I want a white Christmas.” Let’s not be too greedy. Here in Minnesota there could be snow on the ground possibly until May. That’s 5 months. The longer we go without snow, the shorter my crappy commute is.
Plus, there’s golfing and camping to be done. Both difficult with snow on the ground.
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