My wife is really into murder mystery dinners, which means I have to attend them as well. A murder mystery dinner is an interactive play that is performed as you, the guest, dines. The plot usually begins with an actor being murdered; the guests then listen for clues and at the end of the performance the guests must try to guess who the murderer is. The winner(s) are sometimes given prizes. I have been to some good murder mystery dinners and some really bad ones.
Last month we went to a really bad one at our local Arby's. A small group of no-name actors in our community have been doing these shows at local fast food joints to raise money for charities. On this night it was the show and all the Arby's you could eat for $20 a head. My wife, my daughter, and I bought tickets for the event.
I have never been fond of the all-you-can-eat buffet concept. First there is the fact that one is forced to gorge oneself in order to achieve the satisfaction of getting one over on the restaurant owner. And then there is the unsanitary part -- every customer picking in and poking around and coughing on the food. I would rather order off the menu and feel confident that only the cook and my waiter coughed on my meal. But I had always liked Arby's food, and I was under the assumption that we could order anything off the menu and it would cooked fresh, or as close to fresh as you can get from a fast food eatery.
The show and dinner were to begin at 8:00 on a Saturday night, so I started drinking beer around five -- I wanted to be good and buzzed before I left. (And yes, my wife drove -- I don't drink and drive anymore.) After about eight beers I sucked down about four shots of my new love, Leroux Blackberry Brandy. When we arrived at Arby's it was crowded. They had us packed in like sardines and it was hot as hell in there. As the show started I realized that this was going to be as lame as fuck and I just wanted to eat and go home.
After the introductions, the actors walked around, talking to the guests. One old dude came to our table and plugged the fact that they were performing another show the next month at Pizza Hut. I told him I refuse to patronize a Pizza Hut until they send me the pair of underwear they owe me. He looked at me like I was insane.
Eventually the chow line was forming and I was more that ready to fill my feedbag with my favorite Arby's foods. But when I got up to the counter, I was pissed -- all they were serving was tray after tray of cold, pre-prepared hoagie sandwiches. They also had the grease section: fries, mozzarella sticks, potato cakes, and so on. I made the best of it, piling my plate high with every type of cold cut and greasy side; and then I went back for a second load.
I always eat fast during these all-you-can-eat rampages before my stomach tells my brain it is full. If the food is good, it can be a pleasurable experience. But one can only force down so much cold lunchmeat. I also ate some type of funky chicken salad with pineapple and nuts in it, along with too much greasy, deep fried crud. I was drunk, it was hot and crowded, and my stomach was packed. Yet like a fool I grabbed and ate two cherry turnovers from a plate that was being passed around.
Then it hit me -- I felt like I was going to puke. I had no idea what was going on with this stupid show. I just sat there, motionless, sweating like a pig. In order to get to the bathroom I would have had to climb over a few tables and people. I started to panic, and so I just went for it. The burned out hillbilly biker dude who was watching the door all night gave me a dirty look as I entered the restroom, and that freaked me out. I was even more freaked out by the disgusting condition of the restroom. You know the old theory about restaurants: dirty bathroom = dirty kitchen. This sickened me further.
I couldn't puke or shit, so I just stood at the urinal and pissed; I figured I could expel some pressure from my tortured torso. I exited the bathroom and finally this ridiculous excuse for a show ended. We split.
I never did puke, but there was something real scary forming deep within my bowels. We got home and I went to bed, only to wake up at four AM with the urge to shit. I hate being a night shitter, but it was either go sit on the can or lay there and suffer. I went to the toilet and sat down and rubbed my gut to help ease the pain. But I couldn't download anything. And as I sat on the can with the worst gut ache, I cursed my gluttonous self and Arby's. There were several pounds of rotting animal flesh in my gut laughing at me. I gave up and staggered back to bed.
I woke up around 7:30, still in pain. I decided to make some coffee -- I am usually very regular, especially after drinking several cups in the morning. Coffee seems to loosen things up. But this time, nothing. I always shit at least twice a day, every day, but this day it was not to be.
The lazy Sunday wore on and I retained my load all day and throughout another near-sleepless night. I tried several times throughout the day, to no avail. The urge was ever-present, but one doesn't want to push too hard and get a nasty hemorrhoidal flare-up. Every time I thought about the night before, the show, or the food, I felt ill. The thought of that night still sickens me today.
But by Monday morning I was back to normal and crapping like a mule, whatever that means. I dropped a huge stinky Arby's load that could peel the paint off the walls. All that fermented refuse in my colon was finally passing through me with wonderful ease.
I am always getting those Arby's coupons in the mail, but it may be many years before I ever patronize one of their stores again.