Reads the advertisement outside the Buckhorn Grill. From a few feet back, "the" and "on the", both paler in color, and smaller in type (as I have so faithfully recreated above) almost disappear, while "Best", "Tri-Tip", and "Planet" jump out.
I pass this advertisement daily. Each time, I can't resist ignoring "the" and "on the" and imagining the sign says "Best Tri-Tip Planet". Like, it's a planet, floating in space, made of meat. Of all the meat planets in all the billions of galaxies in the universe, this particular meat planet, is the most tender, and juicy of all (at least, that's what the Intergalactic Federation thinks. The same guys who gave Palace Steakhouse on Mission and Cesar Chavez "3 stars" on yelp. They wouldn't know a good steak if they crashed into it!). When inhabitants of the neighboring civilization demand steak, they send their excavation crew. Once they've landed on its charred, fragrant surface, they immediately get to work: drilling. Deep below the crust, they plunge a long meat thermometer, hoping that finally, finally, they've found the elusive "rare" cluster.
"Rejoice! The temperature reads 76 kleegans*!"
"At long last, or search is over. Lord Infarction will be pleased."
A deep rumble...
"Permission to speak, sir"
"Permission granted. What do those knobs and thingy-ma-bobs indicate?"
"Something big, sir. Sir, I think we may penetrated into an underground reservoir of..."
A thick stream of Au Jus shoots fourth.
"Permission to writhe in agony, sir!"
Permission granted.
And blah, blah, blah. I'm still tweaking the script. Bruckheimer's peeps say he's interested. Bruce "what'chou talkin' 'bout" Willis has signed on. Aerosmith has some touchy-feely tepid turd of a power ballad ready to go...
So basically, I'm set (for life).
*approximately 120-125 degrees.
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