77 Harvard (on Washington)
We decided to eat out last night. We wanted a place offering Zeusian ambrosia and a staff of cretins who would happily slash out our sinewy pride tendons with cold hook knifes forged from years of mistreatment by the wealthy and attractive. This searing of love and murder can only exist under one construct...
We heard that some president man was going to try and sell us a miracle salve for our suicidally flaccid financial portfolio, so the intent is to sit in the room with the large 1993 rich family projector TV and try to believe. To our subtle disgust, we are informed that Star Pizza chooses to avoid the harsh controversy of a presidential monologue, thus decreasing the chances of some politically charged feelings betwixt patrons boiling over into a kitchen tool bloodbath amongst partisan rivals. We briefly imagine being forced into decapitating the busgirl with a 2.5" pizza slicer because she sees merit in an auto bailout and decide not to stay.
The guy at the To Go counter has a bear trap for a grill and speaks in asshole. We try to explain the paradox of placing an order for delivery at the restaurant, but we can only hear the echo of our pointless words bouncing through the grey clouds of bong rip in his otherwise vacant skull.
In the end, sauteed spinach, chicken, artichokes and feta cheese on whole wheat, makes everything better.