The Sci-Fried Eggs are back and they are broadcasting this week from Studio B at Bathurst Manor! Doc starts with a review of the Hulu original series Deadbeat. Then Doc and Chuck discuss their new show sponsor, Rocket Helo Energy Drink along with discussing 3-D printers. Chuck reviews Patton Oswalt’s new book Zombie Spaceship Wasteland. The Eggs review The Avengers: Age of Ultron. And then Doc and Chuck do some catching up on stuff they missed while they were on leave.
Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 1
The Sci-Fried Eggs Return and Deadbeat Review
Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 2
Rocket Helo Show and 3-D Printers
Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 3
Zombie Spaceship Wasteland Review
Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 4
Avengers: Age of Ultron Review
Sci-Fried Eggs: Episode 105, Segment 5
Catching Up on Things
It was a cool and calm night. I had been driving for what seemed like days. It had really only been 38 minutes, but when you leave the Crazy Horse Club in Bedford, Ohio, with the only natural blonde in the club on your arm, time takes on a new kind of meaning.
She was beautiful, not like the other girls at the club who bleached their hair. She was cut from a different kind of cloth, not the sparkly, day-glow, stretchy, barely-there kind of cloth of most of the women in her particular place of employment. She was cut from a luxurious, rich, high-thread-count kind of cloth that Egyptians use for their bed sheets. Her legs were long and slender, and she moved with a conceited grace and a careless confidence. I was so enamored by her creamy white skin and flowing golden hair that I had hardly noticed that she had approached me and was standing right in front of me.
I was shocked back into reality when she had asked, “You vant drink?” Her thick Russian accent was like soft music to my ears. I blinked at her for a moment, my vision slightly blurred by the poor lighting in the club. She repeated herself, her Russian accent mixed with annoyance, “Do you vant drink?” My mind raced. I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. “I like your eyes!” A look of confusion crossed her face, which then quickly became anger. “Wodka vith ice?! Vhat is vrong vit you?” I quickly realized she had misheard me over the loud music of the club. As I leaned closer to her, I could smell the faint scent of what I assumed to be designer tobacco. I repeated myself, “I said I like your eyes.” Her anger slowly turned back to mild annoyance, “I bring you wodka, no ice. Is Russian way. Drink like real man.” Her words were like the alluring tones of a siren (the sexy women who lure sailors to their deaths, not the loud things on fire trucks). She turned and floated away to the bar. I tried to gather myself together enough to make some haphazard attempt at small talk when she returned.
After 17 minutes, she returned with my drink. As she placed the room-temperature shot of vodka on the small cocktail table, I tried to stoke the fire of conversation, “So, do you come here often?” She shot me an angry glance which could have pierced through a bank vault door. She had clearly heard this line before, as she quickly responded, “Yes, is vhere I vork.” I decided to change my approach, “So what are you doing later? Wanna grab some dinner?” Her expression softened for a split second before turning back to stone, “My shift ends at two in morning. You take me to Vaffle House in Austinburg.” I wondered why she wanted to go to that particular Waffle House. Aside from it being the northernmost Waffle House and way out of the way, there wasn’t any thing special about it that I knew of. But who knew. Maybe she had a friend who worked there and would give us a discount. Besides, I never argue with hot, blonde, Russian women or discounts at restaurants.
At a quarter ’til 2, the bouncer told me the club was closing and that I needed to leave. I told him I was giving my waitress a ride. He grabbed me by the arm and said they didn’t allow that kind of language in the club and that I had had too much to drink. Having only had the one warm vodka shot, the bouncer seemed amazed at my sober awareness and ability to walk. He escorted me out the front door which he slammed behind me. I waited by my car until the neon lights of the club had been turned off and there were no cars left in the parking lot . It was almost 2:30 in the morning now. I was almost ready to chalk the evening up as a loss when I caught the faint scent of what I assumed to be designer tobacco. I turned to see her, the street lights creating the most beautiful silhouette I had ever seen. “I thought you weren’t coming,” I said. “Vent to gas station for cigarettes,” was her response as she opened the passenger door and got into my car.
Twenty-six minutes into our trip, I saw the Waffle House sign and started to exit the highway. She stared straight ahead and said, “Vat are you doing?” I blurted out a confusion-laced response, “Taking you to the Waffle House?” As her right hand held a lit cigarette, she threw her left hand up in disgust, “Is not Austinburg Vaffle House! Is nowhere! Keep driving!” I merged back onto the highway and leaned hard on the accelerator.
My ’76 Chevette screamed down I-90. I looked over at her as she lit another cigarette and took a long, slow drag. She held the smoke in for a miniature eternity before slowing exhaling. She had commented when she got in the car about her window not rolling up all the way. I had explained that I had bought the car like that and the window guide track was bent and that’s why the window wouldn’t roll up the last inch. As the smoke gently poured from her lips, it swirled for just a second before it was quickly whisked away through the one-inch window opening and exiled to the desolate world outside. Interstate 90 was like a forgotten stretch of highway, the lone Chevette lighting up the otherwise pitch-dark thoroughfare. The faint glow of Austinburg lit up the night sky in the distance like a nocturnal mirage.
Another eight miles and we left I-90 via exit 223, then a right onto Center Road. She lit another cigarette. A couple gas stations, a Burger King, a McDonalds, and just off of Gh Drive the familiar yellow and black moniker of the Waffle House. I parked the car and we both got out. The glow of the lights in the Waffle House in contrast with her black Partners in Kryme t-shirt made her creamy white skin radiate as we crossed the parking lot. As I swung the door open for her and the noise and aroma of the Waffle House escaped into the night, a surly waitress with a name tag that said “Bernice” in bold black letters shouted, “No smoking in here!”
My Russian beauty stopped cold in her tracks. She lifted the half finished cigarette to her bright red lips and took a long, slow, rebellious inhale before she flicked the still lit cigarette out the open door. She held the smoke in until we reached the table and Bernice had her back to us before she exhaled. I sat down and she slid gracefully beside me in the booth, putting one slender arm behind my back, her hand finding its way to rest on my shoulder. She pushed the menu in front of me, “Order vhat you vant.”
Her arm draped across my back was distracting, but I tried to put it out of my mind as I looked over the menu. Bernice waddled over to our booth and asked, “Whaddya want ta eat?”
Her fingers lightly brushed my shoulder and she nodded gently at me and then to the menu, “Order vhat you vant.” I looked at Bernice and said, “I’ll have a waffle with some sausage, please. And coffee to drink.” Bernice scratched the order down on her notepad and looked to the thin Russian goddess sitting beside me. Bernice glared at her, the smoking incident at the door still fresh in both their minds, and said, “And what’ll you have, little missy?”
She met Bernice’s glare with a glare of her own. Her lips curled into the slightest sneer, “Two eggs, ower light, bacon, large plate smothered, cowered, topped, and diced, vith coffee.” Bernice jotted the order down, furious that this little minx had spoken to her in her own language. Bernice marched off to get our coffee.
With her arm still around me, she pulled her lighter and pack of Newports out of her jean shorts pocket and sat them on the table. She shook the pack to loosen one cigarette that she held up and delicately removed from the rest of the pack with her nimble lips. She rolled the cigarette around to the edge of her demure mouth as she set the pack back on the table. I asked her, “Isn’t this a no smoking establishment?” But before I could further inquire, she took her index finger and pressed it gently against my lips as a, “Shhhh,” escaped from her perfect face. She lifted her lighter and struck it. The fire gleamed bright between us. She lit the dangling cigarette and inhaled.
It was about this time that Bernice saw what was going on at booth number 4 and started stomping in our direction. Before Bernice reached the booth, she yelled, “I thought I told you there was no smoking in here!” Bernice’s voice cut through the noise of the Waffle House like a fog horn through a cold, winter morning. Bernice marched from behind the counter around to the outside of our booth and snatched the cigarette from her slender hands. Bernice threw the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with her Brahma boot.
As Bernice stood there lumbering over her, she looked to me and whispered in my ear, “Vun moment, darling.” I felt her arm around me slither behind my back and she turned and raised up out of the seat as though she were weightless. Once standing, the size difference became blindly apparent. She was about a half foot shorter than Bernice and about a third, possibly a quarter, of Bernice’s size. Bernice was too busy being proud of herself for stomping out the cigarette to notice my Russian accomplice pivot hard on one foot and brace her hand on the edge of our booth. Before Bernice realized what was happening, the soft laces of a well-placed white Ked connected solidly with the right side of Bernice’s sullen face. Bernice landed hard on the brown tile floor. The dainty foot and leg continued around in a follow through that resembled a pirouette. As Bernice lay there motionless, I looked at this Russian beauty before me. She looked back at me, rolled her eyes, and reached for her pack of Newports. She lit another cigarette and slid back into the booth beside me, her arm draping back into its previous position.
Bernice was propped up in a chair with an ice pack on a quickly-swelling black eye when the blue and red lights of the Ashtabula County Sheriff’s Department flooded the parking lot of the Waffle House. I do have to say that Mary-Alice, our replacement waitress let us in on the fact that everyone who worked at Waffle House #1830 had been wanting to do that very same thing to Bernice for years. And Mary-Alice made sure we got our food and that our coffee stayed filled up until the Sheriff’s Department arrived. Mary-Alice even offered us to-go cups of coffee but the Sheriff’s Department wasn’t real keen on me and my Russian love having coffee in the back of the patrol car.
While the Russian Bonnie to my American Clyde sat with me handcuffed in the back of a patrol car, waiting until the Sheriff’s deputies decided what they were going to do with us, she looked at me and leaned over close. Her lips parted ever so slightly and she exhaled, her breath cool against my lips. She continued to lean closer toward me, our lips just inches apart when suddenly the door of the patrol car opened and a hand grabbed my shoulder and gently ripped me out of the back of the patrol car and away from my destiny. “You’re free to go, bossman,” was what the deputy said to me as he slammed the patrol car door shut, “and the manager has asked that you never come back to this Waffle House again.” I just nodded, my mind still on her lips moving toward mine. The deputy took the handcuffs off of me, and when I turned around, the patrol car was leaving, my beautiful Russian soul mate securely in the back seat.
I reached out a hand in the direction of the fleeing patrol car. The deputy looked at me and said, “So what’s your name, bossman?” I learned a long time ago from a very wise man that you’re only supposed to lie to two people in life: your wife and police. So I told him my name was Walter Kronkite, with a K, not a C. The deputy said that was cool. I went and got into my car and left. I was on parole and nowhere near the state I was supposed to geographically be in. And I didn’t need any more trouble.
♠ The title for this essay is courtesy of Artie Beaty. If you have an essay title you’d like to suggest, email it to BatDocBlog@gmail.com. You might see your essay title in one of my books, and I’ll be sure to thank you in the book for it!
Wow, almost noon. I really should call in to work and let someone know I’m not going to make it today. Or, by this time, the manager at Shoney’s already thinks I’m going to be a no-call-no-show. But I’ll show him. I’m going to call anyway just so he knows I’m not that kind of shitty person who is a no-call-no-show. He might call me lazy, unmotivated, apathetic, and irresponsible, but I’ll be damned if he’ll be able to call me discourteous. Wow, 37 missed calls and 89 unread texts. It must have been crazy at Shoney’s this morning. But why wouldn’t it be? A delicious breakfast buffet with over 17 items for $7.99 with drink included! What a deal. I had better check these messages and call in sick.
Hmmm, seems like a lot of these messages are asking if I’ve seen the news about the end of the world. Something about all life on the planet ending. At least that’s what the first few voicemails were about. I just deleted the rest when I found out they were all about the same thing. And if you want to talk about discourteous, how dare no one at Shoney’s answer the phone. I tried calling twice and let it ring for 5 or 6 times each time. Whoever is at the front is supposed to answer the phone after the third ring. Amber must be working. She shows up, sure, but she just doesn’t give a damn about answering the phone. Anyway, I left a message, so that should be good enough. Note to self, print out a fake doctor’s note for tomorrow. Whew, I sure am hungry. Pulling an all-nighter watching Mad About You on Netflix might not have been the best idea I’ve ever had, but I’ve always regretted not giving that show a real chance. Time to find some lunch.
The news sure is on about this end of the world thing. It’s on every channel. So as not to ruin my whole lunch experience with the dread and over-reaction of the news outlets, I watched another episode of Mad About You. Only 4 episodes left. I should be able to finish up the whole series this evening. I kind of know how I feel about it, but I’m going to reserve judgment until I’ve seen the whole thing. I also really enjoyed my bacon sandwich. But that was the last of my bacon, so I’ll need to go to the store sometime this afternoon. Hold on, the house phone is ringing. I should probably answer that since not a lot of people have that number.
Geez, mom sure is long-winded. And she is super worried about the end of the world. But that’s how the news media is. Get people wound up over a lot of nothing. Y2K, Mayan Calendar, need I go on? Anyway, she’s super worried because this time the news says the end of the world is “for real.” I’ll check it on Snopes.com later. All this hub-bub is wearing me out. I think I’ll take a quick 30 minute nap before I go to the store.
I don’t think my alarm clock is working properly, if at all. It works when I set it, but I don’t think it’s working when I’m asleep. Anyway, I was going to go to the store, but there’s a lot of sirens and what sounds like gunshots outside. And I don’t live in the best of neighborhoods to begin with. But hey, the rent is great and my apartment building is one of the newest in the complex. Not to mention all the people in my particular building seem to be pretty decent people. Except for maybe Tom. I got to meet him when he moved in and had to go door-to-door to tell everyone he was on the sexual offenders list. But he showed me pictures and that girl totally looked like she was 18, so I don’t really blame him. And I agree with him that it was Applebee’s fault for letting her sit at the bar to being with. Anyway, I’m going watch another episode of Mad About You and see if things settle down a little. Then off to the store!
Only 3 episodes of Mad About You left! I’m so excited to see what happens in the series finale! I also watched the first little bit of the 6 o’clock news. They seem pretty serious about this end of the world thing. I couldn’t find anything on Snopes.com. And there were a lot of news websites that were talking about it too. The news also mentioned something about gas thieving and staying in your house. But I really do need to go to the store and I should probably really be at work tomorrow. I’ve already been out three days this week and it’s only Thursday. Okay, I’m going to make a quick list and head to the store.
Well, apparently my car is out of gas. I could have swore I had like half a tank. Or maybe it was those “gas thieves” that the news was talking about. Ha ha, gas thieves. The news over-reacts about everything. I was going to see if one of my neighbors could give me a ride to the gas station to fill up a couple empty milk jugs I found, but no one seems to be home. In fact, Mark and Kendra went somewhere and just left their door wide open. I closed it because I didn’t want anyone stealing anything. They probably just got stoned, got hungry, and went to Denny’s and forgot to close the door when they left. Silly Mark and Kendra. Anyway, I guess I’m staying here until someone else gets home and can give me a ride to the gas station. Also, I really need to talk to the landlord. The parking lot is a mess. It looks like 40 people moved out all at once and just dropped stuff all over the parking lot. Seriously, I pay like $250 a month and the parking lot looks like the apocalypse is coming. Unacceptable.
What the crap! I just got off the phone with my friend Brian and he told me there was a meteor heading straight for Earth and it was going to hit at like midnight tonight! And we are like right in the blast zone! No one could take the time to freaking call and tell me?! Seriously?! My friends are freaking worthless. Thank god Brian isn’t a total butthole friend. And he said he just found out from his cousin who heard it from his sister and she found out about it because her roommate is dating this guy who works at NASA that she met on eHarmony. And he said that NASA has know about this meteor for like a month. Thanks a lot news media for being so wrapped up in all your over-hyped crap that you couldn’t mention the really important story that really affects people! I should really call my mom and let her know. I’ll give her a call later though. I’m really hungry right now. I get hungry when I get stressed out.
Well, apparently none of my neighbors were coming home any time soon to take me to get gas for my car, so I decided I would have to scavenge for food. I’m glad I didn’t lock Mark and Kendra’s apartment. They had like a third of a bag of tortilla chips. They were the triangle chips, and although I like the round ones, one can’t be too choosy when scavenging your stoner neighbors’ apartment. As much as they snack, I would have guessed there would have been more food in their house. Anyway, I also found a can of Vienna sausages that had fallen behind my toaster. Total stroke of luck. I think I’ll enjoy this wonderful, and I use this term loosely, “feast” and watch the last 3 episodes of Mad About You.
WTF! Netflix isn’t working. “We are having trouble playing this title right now.” Bull! Crap! It’s the eve of freaking destruction. Seriously, how many people can be watching Netflix right now?! It seems like most people are running around shooting guns and looting from all the noise outside. I’m like the only sane person who is staying in for the apocalypse. But I’ve always been more of a homebody. But anyway, no Netflix means no Mad About You. I only had 3 episodes left. How am I supposed to find out what happened to Paul and Jamie?! I guess I could read it on the Internet, but that just takes all the fun out of it. In any case, thanks a lot Netflix. Evening ruined.
There is literally nothing on TV. All the TV channels are off the air. Not sure what that’s all about. I know a meteor is headed this way to end all life as we know it, but that’s no reason to stop broadcasting TV. And now the power just went out! This is stupid!
Luckily the sky is pretty lit up with this meteor headed our way. Guess we are getting more light because we are right in the strike zone. Small miracles, right? Mark and Kendra might not have had any food in their apartment, but stoners sure do seem to love candles. I found like 40 of them and a ton of lighters. So since I’m pretty certain they aren’t coming back in the next three and a half hours, I moved all the candles to my apartment and lit them up. It looks like I’m sitting on the set of Temple of Doom. I think Temple of Doom isn’t as bad an Indiana Jones film as everyone makes it out to be. Sort of like Star Trek V. I could really watch both films before the apocalypse, but since the power is out, it looks like I’m not watching any DVDs either. Maybe I can find a good book to read.
Whew. That was an unplanned nap. Reading always makes me sleepy. And thinking back, Moon People by Dale M. Courtney was probably not the most exciting book I could have picked up. Well, not much time left now. I wonder if this thing will really hit at 12:09 like the news is saying. Brian said his cousin’s sister’s roommate’s boyfriend who works at NASA said 12:09 was probably pretty accurate. Of course, it’s not like that guy’s a rocket scientist. Brian said his cousin’s sister said the guy was just the overnight janitor there. But janitors do tend to know all the gossip. And I bet all those NASA scientists gossip about things like meteors hitting the planet all the time. Well, I think I’ll drag my couch out into the apartment parking lot to watch the show.
Why can’t someone design a stupid couch that will fit through an apartment door?! I’ve been horsing around trying to get my couch out my front door for like 15 minutes. And of course when I decide to abandon moving the couch the sonofabitch gets twisted and stuck. And since it was wedged in the door frame, I had to crawl over the couch to get through the front door to get back into my damned apartment. Stupid ass couch. I’ve never liked that couch anyway. So once I got back into the apartment, I took one of my dining room chairs out the back door and had to walk all the way around the building. Then I forgot my drink, but I’ll be damned if I’m walking back around the apartment complex or climbing over that couch again and missing the show.
Well, this meteor is clearly going to be late. I’m really thirsty. I’m going back around the building to get my drink. I hope I don’t miss it while I’m–
This week on the show, Tex returns with stories from Uncle Barney’s Funeral, including a letter that Uncle Barney left for Duster and Tex in his will that answers some very important questions about all the stuff Duster and Tex found when they dragged the bottom of the pond at their house.
Follow Duster and Tex on Twitter @DusterandTex!
The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 1
Uncle Barney Rubble McCoy’s Funeral
The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 2
Tuber Reads the Letter and Whopper
The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 3
Uncle Barney’s Letter Part 1
The Duster and Tex Show: Episode 123, Segment 4
Uncle Barney’s Letter Part 2