Fifty Cent Mondays

Have I mentioned yet that next week, I'll be going back to the dog track to revisit the humiliation of last summer? The dog track is a place of mystery: weird people doing weird things with weird names, and losing lots of money while doing it. If I ever discovered a big ball of diamonds in my bowl of cereal, I'd use the money to establish a dog track/casino on a beach in Mexico. Then I'd move down there and be like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now, with all of the natives living in a combination of fear and awe of the crazy, fat ass white guy. Hopefully I'd be a little less violent than Col. Kurtz, but any promises I make there are bound to be empty; the doggies get me riled up sometimes.

When I was at that track last year, I noticed they did something called Fifty Cent Mondays, where drinks, food, and beer were all fifty cents. If there's ever a place where you want to wear your galoshes, I'm guessing it's fifty cent beer night at the dog track. They could probably wrap a neat promotion into that and give all the attendants a complimentary eye patch, since someone is bound to need one by the end of that evening. Unfortunately, next Monday is not the day I'll be there, since I have to work. I could try to arrange for Monday off, but I'm worried that if word got out that I was skipping work to go to Fifty Cent Night at the dog track, my college diploma would immediately burst into flames.

In other news, the Appetizerathon at work has been rescheduled for a day when I'll be here. I'm still leaning towards not entering, because I am a petulant baking competitor, much like Bobby Fischer. My coworkers tried to play me for a fool by rescheduling at the last minute, but the only person who'll be laughing will be me, when I guffaw at the pathetic assortment of bean-based dishes. In my best Soup Nazi voice, I declare, "No pork and bean surprise for you!"