Ah, Mickey Mouse. He's an American treasure. As a kid I watched him as often as I could. I would race to the TV, glue myself to the sofa, and sing all the songs. Oh, how I longed to be a member of the Mickey Mouse Club, but my mother never got around to doing whatever the hell it was she had to do to sign me up. Drug addicts have much more important things to do, you know. Even to this day, I love Mickey Mouse just as much as the next person. I just don't like to see him when I'm eating, especially when I'm eating in an establishment where I am paying for the pleasure.
Hubby and I were at Shucker's Restaurant in Fells Point celebrating my friend's birthday. This is supposedly one of the many awesome seafood restaurants for which Maryland is known. To their credit, before I saw the mouse, I was enjoying my seafood quesadilla. It was fucking delicious; lump crab meat, grilled shrimp, and bay scallops encased in two warm tortillas smothered in melted cheese with sour cream and salsa on the side. Sweet mother of buddha that shit was good!
There we were about eight of us in total, laughing, talking, drinking, and enjoying food that we presumed was safe to eat, when this little gray mouse peeked his head out from behind one of the tables nearby. You could have chopped my ass up and served me for dinner, 'cause I was done. For the next ten minutes or so, while we tried to locate our waitress, Mickey continued to scurry playfully throughout the dining room without a care in the world.
When "Heather" finally reappeared (I don't know if that was her name, she just looked like a Heather. Don't get all fucking snotty, you know what Heathers look like. I apologize to any Heather who is not young, skinny, and super perky. I'm old, fat, and bitchy, ergo, I don't like those bitches.), she explained to us that there was nothing she could do. The exterminator came every week, but because the restaurant is on the water, the mice keep coming back. But she assured us that there were no mice in the kitchen. What the fuck? Do the mice live in the water and just pop up to the restaurant to place their order every night? When she realized her "it happens all the time" excuse wasn't exactly instilling us with confidence, she brought the manager over. He said the exact same thing. It was like they were reading from a script. Then he asked, "What do you want me to do?" What do I want you to do you ask? Oh, that's easy. I want you to take this delicious quesadilla, wrap the little mousey inside, and stick it up your saggy, nonchalant ass. That's not too much to ask is it?
I tried to stick it out for my friend. She was still waiting for others to show up to her celebration and, wonderful friend that I am, I didn't want to bail on her. However, when Minnie showed up to find out why the fuck Mickey hadn't come home yet, I took that as a sign that it was time to go.
Here's my question: were we making a big fuss over nothing? Is that something that should be expected at restaurants on the waterfront? I ask because while our whole party (all black and/or mixed race people) was upset and disgusted, the rest of the patrons (all white as far as I could tell) didn't seem bothered at all. This is a real question. I'm not trying to be controversial or any shit like that. I am really curious. Is this a racial thing? Cultural? Rich vs. middle class (Fells Point is where "people with money" live)? What do you think?
Just to let you know, any racist comments that are made will not even see the light of day. As soon as I read the first racist word, I will delete it without bothering to read the rest. So don't even waste your time, you dumb, cowardly anonymous fuck.
That is all.
