Upgrade My Body, Please

Serving food to the elderly community has taught me one thing; the human body is a machine. When one part ceases to function properly, it is completely normal to replace it with a new part. Organs, limbs, teeth, it seems these hospitals and clinics have them all. They may as well change the name of UT Southwestern to Lone Star Spare-Parts Wholesale Deluxe Superstore. Like any superstore, you can even use Groupons to purchase your body upgrades, except they call it "Medicare."  There must have been a Groupon sale for lung transplants recently because it's all the rage among transplants right now. You may even be able to get a BOGO deal on lungs at the rate they're giving them out. Like our beloved computers that require software updates and new operating systems installed regularly over time, our bodies too are eligible for premium upgrades and  installations. I've met a startling number of old men and old women who have undergone multiple procedures to keep their bodies chugging along with new parts. In the most unnatural turn of events, humans are becoming invincible.

From reinforced sets of teeth to titanium hips, old people are more and more resembling Frankenstein's monster. Their hodgepodge of human parts work together to sustain a walking, nightmarish creature from the Antiques Roadshow. Their numbers grow as modern medicine allows them to cheat death with greater and greater ease. I look out into the sea of old people munching on grilled salmon with their new teeth and twirling spaghetti with their Luke Skywalker 2.0 hands, and I think, "When I grow up, I want to be a cyborg."

With the elderly's internal systems looking like Steampunk contraptions already, I am certain that the fast progress of medical technology will give rise to a new race of human beings. Evolution will spawn an elite race of human and machine hybrids. They will be faster, stronger, but most likely drive slowly. There will be a rise of the machines. It will be very much like the movie Terminator: Rise of the Machines, only Sam Worthington will not be there to bother us with his sad excuse for an American accent. In the war between humans and cyborgs, one must choose a side. The question remains, will you choose to upgrade? When I reach this new coming-of-age, I know that my decision to upgrade will be the right one. In an epic war to be the dominant species on the planet, I will side with the octogenarian cyborgs because I want to win and I want to live. Also, because I just love Werther's Originals.

When I get my upgrade, I plan to install any function and application I might need to survive a war. Of course I will cover the basics for my old age, like titanium hip replacement, a full set of reinforced dentures, oxygen tank, and tennis balls on my walker. Then for my war gear, I will need to replace one of my eyes with a digital scope so that I can see when Christian Bale is sneaking around trying to shoot me. For defensive purposes, I will need to install some kind of automatic weapon. I will probably get an uzi for its portability and street cred. I also want some sort of weapon that I do not need to reload so I will probably add some retractable Wolverine claws on my hand. Adamantium, no less. Some other items I might need in future wartime include a vacuum cleaner, pneumatic drill, egg beaters, etc. As an old lady, I need to be prepared to destroy enemies and provide snacks. I'll need to install a refrigerator as well, but I'll probably settle for a slim and sexy mini-fridge. I don't want a full-size one spoiling my otherwise delicate physique. I would also like a Slurpee machine, but that would just be ridiculous. I need to stay practical in a time of war. My basic package is a pretty standard upgrade for my decrepit, obsolete, human body to be able to function smoothly and without assistance.

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part II

Following up on last night's post regarding my anxiously awaited dinner shift at Ocean's, allow me to regale you with a tale that neither Nostradamus, Professor Trelawney, nor I saw coming. (you can read last night's post here http://legendarywig.blogspot.com/2012/02/rise-of-valentines-day.html)

Our hearty staff braced for the worst tonight. A torrent of happy, rabid couples looking for a romantic dinner loomed just beyond the horizon, we were sure of it. The foreboding moments before turning on the open sign felt like that aerial shot of Agamemnon's fleet in Troy; a thousand ships bringing suburbanites with dangerous appetites for love and shellfish to our shores. Aye, I was Hector readying my battalion, for I had the most years of experience at Oceans... also because I too have a chiseled jaw and a burly chest carved by the gods themselves. But I digress.

First a few regulars came in. Then a slow conveyer of customers began setting the moderate pace that would dictate the night. Everything was fine! My crew and I could handle this. There was no need to call for reinforcements or whip out the readymade altar for a quick bargaining with the gods to take back my chest of envy in return for mercy on this restaurant. No, everything was fine. It was smooth sailing in the horizon.

At the height of the dinner rush, a typical octogenarian couple entered the building and sat at my table. When I approached them to give my usual, enthusiastic speech, I realized that I had just transported into an Eli Roth movie. Upon the old man's bald head rested a boiling pustule of mammoth proportions. I stifled a shudder and diverted my eyes from what looked to be a goddamn oatmeal cookie of horror pasted on his head. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this visual and gastrointestinal assault. While both he and his lady friend were cordial and generally nice people, the blight on his head made me want to run away shrieking "Troll! In the dungeon!!!" Perhaps that makes me a heartless person, but that's because my heart seemed to have left my body and perched itself on top of his head where it now sat pulsating and staring at me. Judge me all you want, but you weren't there. You didn't witness the horror that happened next.

When I returned to take their order, I avoided the glare of his massive boil by staring down at his menu while he decided on what he wanted to eat. I thought, "This is safe. Don't look at it, I'll just take their order and... what the sweet baby Jesus on a biscuit is that?" I notice a red dot on the page of his menu. A dark red dot. Against my better judgement, I peered up, following the red dot's trajectory until I reached the site of its launch. Sweet Lady Gagalupe of the Holy Pokerface, it was just as I feared. His boiling pustule had breached its containment. The cherry on top of his cranial sundae of nightmares was dribbling down and planting itself deep in the fibers of our menu. I suddenly felt the cold sweat creep all over my body. Did someone turn on a fan? I started to feel a little lightheaded as I took the now-contaminated menu from his hand. 

"Keep it together, man. Don't freak out...." I thought to myself as I walked away as steadily as I could, holding the infected menu out in front of me like a bomb. Normally I am not a weenie by any means when it comes to blood, but this time I felt like I deserved an Oscar just for acting normal after coming into such close proximity to a real life creature from The Walking Dead. I am proud to say that I did not throw up, faint, or cry. While my instincts told me to burn the menu, I put it in isolation containment for disinfection at the end of the night. At least the page that came in direct contact with the droplet was a throwaway Valentine special.

Later on I was informed by my co-worker Justin that the blight on the old man's head was not a boil. It was some sort of medical Play-Doh that doctors put on one's head after removing infected flesh. Well this was something I did not know. I'm not a doctor. I'm not George Clooney. I don't know anything about medical Play-Doh. What I do know is that there is a doctor out there who is being remiss with his Play-Doh seals. Never before has the term "paper-bag it" ever  been so appropriate at a restaurant.

Happy Valentine's Day!

click to enlarge the horror!

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part I

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I'm sure you and your significant other will have a delightful day expressing love for one another and feeling that warm sensation in your heart and in your pants. That is all good and well, but for me, Valentine's Day means one thing: the dinner shift at Ocean's Seafood and Grill. Tomorrow night, I expect to be bombarded by hoards of googly-eyed, happy, shiny people seeking a romantic evening. I can't even run away from my doom. In fact, I must do the complete opposite of run away; I have to cordially greet them and do my utmost to make sure that their evening is as romantic as it is delicious. If need be, I am prepared to dazzle them with my rendition of Celine Dion's "The Power of Love." There will not be a dry eye in the house due to the sheer magnificence of my voice, as well as to cataracts and glaucoma (our patrons are rather seasoned members of society). As I cater to their every whim and fancy, I am forced to acknowledge and dignify every question of,


"So do YOU have a boyfriend?"

"What are YOU doing for Valentine's Day?"

"What is this corkage fee, do you even know who I am, you sniveling imbecile in an apron?"


with a smile and speedy response that assures them that their night is not ruined, that they are winners because someone loves them and cared enough to join them for a seafood dinner special.

Am I bitter? No, I love all holidays. I find any excuse to celebrate and eat more decadently than usual. If I had my own kitchen I would even bake a Kwanzaa cake a la Sandra Lee, the whitest slice of white bread of a lady on Food Network. Holidays are about sharing happiness, and it just seems to me that Valentine's Day is the most obnoxious holiday that is exclusive and does not promote sharing. Share the love, people! I see people sucking each other's faces off like the facehugger in Alien, and not ONCE do they ask me if I want a bite.

Tomorrow night I am going to be giving my attention, giving my seafood recommendations, and giving a complimentary salad with every meal to these obnoxious facehuggers. I am going to be giving delicious plates of noodles to go with your incessant canoodling, and what will you give back to me? Empty plates! You probably won't even save me a piece! If it weren't for a juicy tip at the end of the bill, I would not hesitate to besiege you with my scorned and seething interpretation of One Republic's "Apologize."

With Valentine's Day looming its sweet, ruffly head tomorrow, I share with you my series of personalized Valentine cards, inspired by the Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Not only do apes and I share DNA, but we also share similar feelings in regards to Valentine's Day.