I Met "The Man"...

Working at Microsoft means there are lots and lots of people who have gravitated to various lunch spots within the general vicinity of Microsoft Ville, or Redmond, to the lay person. Yesterday I inquire about where to go and someone told me "If you like BBQ, you need to check out Dixie's BBQ and Automotive down by Highway 405".

"IF I like BBQ?" I asked.

And for the record, I do.

So I made my way down to this rather disturbing area garage, masquerading as a diner, on the backside of a wrecking yard, underneath the freeway. But as I walk inside I feel immediately comfortable. Warm colors adorn the walls, picnic tables along with supportive office-type chairs make up the seating. There is jazz and gospel music playing, and everyone seems at ease and happy.

Strolling up to the counter I notice a lot of signs and bumper stickers that say "I met The Man at Dixie's BBQ". Feeling like I am missing out on something, I decide to ask the cashier "What is The Man?". She looks at me, absolutely shocked that I didn't know this for myself, and states roughly "oh it's a little hot sauce we have here". I politely tell her I would like no part of that anywhere near my chicken, as I am somewhat of a pansy when it comes to spicy food.

The Barbecue Disciplinarian (known from here on as the BD), as I came to call her (behind her back), dished up my order with the force of ten men. The chicken meal, half a chicken, cornbread, baked beans, potato salad, and lemon cake, looks quite appetizing. 11 bucks. Good value.

After sitting I start eating the succulent smoked chicken. The food is quite good, exceptional even, and the warm feeling from the good food and the homely ambiance is putting me at ease after my conversation with the BD. Ten minutes into my meal, this crazy little man in an apron comes into the dining area, carrying a saucepan full of what looks like black beans, only more evil, and soul less than normal. The grin on his face is twisted, like a birthday clown that has been on the recieving end of a child's elbow or knee far too many times. He walks up to patron #1 and thunders:

"Hey boy, have you met The Man!?"
To which the patron replies:
"Why yes I have and I would NOT like to again!"

So he saunters over to me, smelling a fresh victim, and while I am trying to hide and eat at the same time, asks me a similar question.

"um... well.. Not really" was my sorry excuse for an answer.

Before I could blink, he swipes a toothpick from his pocket, dips it in his saucepan and wipes this corrosive looking substance on my chicken! If only I could hear my previously calm, succulent chicken screaming in agony!

"You better eat that" he says, one eye cocked.

The feeling of 25 pairs of eyes resting on me is apparent as I impale a piece of white chicken meat and motion to dab it in the millimeter of Black Death when he warns me:

"Just a touch... not too much"

I put the chicken in my mouth and life as I know it will never be the same. Sweat runs from my brow, snot collects in my nostrils; my whole body gets hot, and then goes into shock, dropping the temperature to what seemed like the mid 20's. I attempt to go to my "happy place", a place within my mind that only I know and that no pain can tolerate. As I close my watering eyes and breathe deeply, my happy place becomes a pit of despair, growing ever deeper as the blistering heat penetrates my now withered soul.

"It burns" I yelp...

"Sho nuff, The Man done took your virginity!" the crazy-eyed cook shrieks.

I chug my root beer, it hurts more, I shovel beans and rice down my gullet, it hurts more, I eat chicken, cake even. My God! Will nothing quell the ravaging devil semen and its unholy burning!? I start to lose consciousness... and then it's over... The burning has subsided. I wipe the tears from my eyes, blow my nose, and calmly eat the rest of my food, aware of the eyes, still on me and the giggling of twenty five customers who have "met The Man" on previous occasions.

A few hours later, my stomach is on fire again. I know that the inevitable bathroom time must be prepared for. With handheld video games fully charged and a copy of BOTH Maxim and FHM in tow, I lock myself away, and after 45 minutes of labor, I give birth to a tiny, smelly, diabolical demon. A knock at the door comes and my wife asks:

"Would you like me to call a priest?" Half joking, I'm sure...

But I seriously ponder the question....

"Maybe a proctologist", I say under my breath, "Maybe a proctologist..."


Conclusion: The BBQ at Dixie's is very good, however, their claim to fame is actually a demonic device used to prey on the souls of the sick and elderly, like a pack of lionesses to a herd of gazelle.