I am in Ocean City for a conference that begins tomorrow. It is late in the evening. I am sitting in my undies smoking a cigar and sipping Thera-flu on the balcony of my seaside hotel. I can see distant fireworks from the boardwalk and the offshore lights of a trawler, but the only sound is the beautiful waves crashing on the shore below me.
I arrived here late and, starving, set out to find a restaurant. I came across an all-you-can eat seafood buffet called “The Way of the Whale”. With a promising name and, my wife not being with me, I went in. What can I say? I am a sucker for a seafood buffet which frankly requires her to be elsewhere.
I was greeted by the smell of Old Bay and a waitress that looked like Steffi Graf. I deduced that the entire staff was imported from the former Soviet Union. The clientele, however, was all American. It took but an instant to appreciate the sheer girth of the average “Whale” patron: we were the heaviest clientele per square foot anywhere outside of Iowa. I was ushered to my seat next to the soft-serve ice cream station and knew I was in for an epic evening. I missed my wife acutely.
Tucking into my tater tots and rubbery buffet tuna, I observed an alarming number of children in sleeveless undershirts with missing teeth and mullet haircuts. They were being parented halfheartedly by sunburned moms and tattooed dads, one of them sporting a t-shirt three sizes too small that said “Free Hugs”. I was not tempted.
The highlight was the soft serve machine itself. I was seated so close that everyone who used the machine – and that was everyone in the place – had to put their bum in my face in order to dish out their soft serve. They would then shuffle to the adjacent “toppings table” with maraschino cherries, various syrups and some liquefied marshmallow topping. The exhaust fan for the soft-serve actually came out the front of the machine, with a force like a public bathroom hand dryer aimed right into the crotch of each soft-serve seeker. This elicited giggles from most patrons but also a few Marilyn Monroe skirt-blowing moments which, given my earlier description of the Whale clientele, did little to aid my digestion. The highlight was two bearded Coptic priests in full black robes and big silver crosses who made no fewer than four trips apiece to the soft serve. Perhaps they were drawn by the liquefied marshmallow topping. Perhaps the exhaust fan. We shall never know. All part of life’s rich pageant swirling about me with its butt in my tater tots.
I waddled back from the “Whale” along the twilight beach and paused near an abandoned lifeguard chair to call my wife. I soon discovered this location happened to be the rendezvous point for gay men out cruising after sundown. As I chatted with her on the phone, several buff Latino lads approached the lifeguard chair in the fading light, only to be repulsed in wide-eyed horror as they got closer. I assume their reaction was to me. Perhaps it was to the lingering scent of Old Bay. Regardless, they moved on quickly.
And so, I retired without event to my balcony to sip Thera-flu and smoke this cigar. I do so in clear violation of the hotel’s “no smoking” rules, the warnings on the Thera-flu pack, as well as general decency and common sense. If I am discovered dead in the morning wearing nothing but my undies with this note as my epitaph, I do truly love you, darling. And I recommend the soft serve.
Wonderfully amusing. Thanks for the laughs. I would love to receive your future blogs. The world needs more laughter. Well done!
Your recent post has turned me off seafood, New Jersey and underpants. I hope it is temporary.