Cheezborger, Cheezborger, Cheezborger

As you can see, the Cricket is all smiles in this photograph. For months she had been planning an escape from the leper colony and today was the day she would flee. To celebrate the
occasion, several friends joined her at the famed Billy Goat Tavern. Popularized by the Saturday Night Live Belushi skits, the Billy Goat Tavern is a real dive with plenty of characters. I thought it would be crowded, but it wasn't and we had a great time. The Cricket is a master planner; here she is seen plotting and scheming the evening's activities. Too bad you can't plan the menu, Cricket: "Cheezborger, Cheezborger Cheezborger! No fries--cheeps! No Pepsi--Coke!" We converged at the Billy Goat Tavern on Friday evening, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in our wake (for the Escape Goat to follow). The Escape Goat loves an opportunity to rely on the GPS tracking microchip surgically implanted behind her left ear. It has been malfunctioning of late, so we knew a backup plan was in order. To get to the Billy Goat Tavern you must climb the below staircase and tug at the left breast of the amazingly lifelike statuary awaiting you. Afterwards, you must whisper the secret passwords in the statue's ear, "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," and a hidden panel will appear...



Press the center of the panel ever-so-slightly and a trapdoor will reveal itself. Take the trapdoor down three flights of stairs to an empty torture chamber with a stop sign on the wall. Pry the stop sign off of the wall with the crowbar you (hopefully) have in your back pocket and step out onto the street. Behold! The Billy Goat Tavern. (Alternative routes include hailing a cab.)



You can't miss it because there is a goat painted on the door. You will notice that the goat appears to have helicopter propeller blades sprouting from its head. How convenient to have helicopter propeller blades sprouting from your head. If I had that special power you would have to consider me an unidentified flying object, or UFO.



Once inside the tavern, we enjoyed refreshing beverages. Al ventured to order a steak, egg, and cheese sandwich. Below he impatiently gnaws on a plastic straw while reminding us about the time he almost got into a fight defending Rick James's honor. The Escape Goat had yet to arrive on the scene, and the Sly Little Minx was expected to be absent (due to her date with Nelson Algren).



Our waiter possessed a Mephistophelean visage and composure (as well as the charming candor of a carnival barker). After commanding us to order beer, he reported that his favorite hobby was kicking ass and taking names. Below he is featured taking names, a simple precursor to the commencement of the ass kickings. But before he could get fresh, the Mayor body checked him and took his tip money for good measure. "Finders keepers, losers weepers!" she shouted with furrowed brow and curled lip. He dare not challenge such a deadly foe. The Mayor donated the tip money to a charity of her choice the next day. Now that our waiter had been cowed into submission, it was steak,
egg, and cheese sandwiches all around. Thanks, Mayor!
Finally, our pugnacious waiter returned with drinks for all. He became momentarily combative about the jukebox, but proved to be a master debater by distracting us from the argument at hand and reminding Al that he could go pick up his steak, egg, and cheese sandwich at the counter. As previously mentioned. Al did--indeed--order a scrumptious steak, egg, and cheese sandwich. But what was this unexpected treat? Al's delicious sandwich was served up on likable wax paper. A true delicacy, likable wax paper. The mayor and I both coveted Al's sandwich, and found ourselves inspired enough to immediately order sandwiches of our own. I was reminded of the night that the Sly Little Minx mixed up Hormel canned chili with Cheez-Wiz, Velveeta, and Spam, and tricked us into thinking it was actually an exotic Venezuelan corn chip dip. The only one with the wherewithal to withstand the temptation of the Minx's honeyed words was the Escape Goat. I predict, had it not been for her vegetarian sensibilities, she too would have succumbed to the temptation.



Below you will note the grisly aftermath of Al's sandwich. We salvaged the fatty tissue for the Sly Little Minx's fatty tissue scrapbook project. (She has a grant, you know.) You'll also be pleased to learn that she was eternally grateful.



Below, the Mayor clamors for more delicious snacks as an ectoplasmic aura emanates from her pores. Her booze-fueled diatribe did not fall on deaf ears...



Promptly, a bag of cheeps was provided...



At long last the Escape Goat arrived, and not a moment too soon. Witnessing the grisly carnage as it was devoured may have been too much for her vegetarian sensibilities. Although we expressed initial concerns that the Escape Goat might have difficulty finding the place from her locale, she shrugged off our worries with a dismissive wave of the palm and a reassuring, "I just saw the goat on the door and said, 'My People!'" Below you will note the Escape Goat's wonderful emerald jacket, but the unspoken truth about it cannot be contained for long. Note how she clutches it protectively...



She confessed to me that she mugged a "wee leprechaun" in order to acquire said jacket. "Since when are wee leprechauns cool?" she asked remorselessly. "I mean. It's his fault. Had he been wearing a canvas cloak or an appropriately cut burlap sack wrapped in bailer's twine I would have left well enough alone, but. You know." Upon further prying I concluded that she had actually mugged--none other than--King Brian (of Darby O'Gill and the Little People fame)! How did I discover this? There was a gold monogrammed KB under the collar. The Escape Goat mugged King Brian! Below he gazes up imploringly, as if to remark, "Has anybody seen me corduroy blazer? It's a bit nippy under me cloak." That's ice cold. Fade to black...



Don't let her dainty posturing fool you, dear reader. Below, the consciousless Mayor comments on the Escape Goat's ill-gotten gains. Indeed the jacket of ill-repute remained a popular item (despite it's history). Alas, such are things of greatness...consider the British Museum, or the colonization of oppressed countries and peoples...



After the Escape Goat arrived it did not take long for the Cricket to start ordering shots of hydrochloric acid, a delicious beverage indeed. The Cricket never passes up an opportunity to indulge in a Dixie-Cup full of hydrochloric acid. You will note the tray that she is carrying. The next morning I was mystified to find this same tray in my bag. Had I regressed to my kleptomaniacal days of high school? Impossible! I suspect the Escape Goat was--once again--attempting to frame me. It's all fun and games, Escape Goat, until someone goes to jail for grand larceny.



We raised our glasses aloft and toasted the Cricket's good fortune...



Below the Mayor reacts to the shot with a prompt, "No comment. I plea the fifth! You'll be hearing from my attorney." The communal response to this shot was bizarre, indeed...



The shot inspired us to imagine life with a mustache. A perfect mustache equates the perfect crime. Moustaches are to villains like hippies are to patchouli. Mmm...patchouli, "Riding that train, high on cocaine. Casey Jones you better watch your speed."
Al had that perfect pencil-thin moustache that villains dream of
obtaining. He achieved this effect with a straw.









The Mayor remained unenthusiastic about this experiment. Regardless, a moustache was thrust upon her face. She is physically incapable of defending herself against most assaults. I lashed her with a lock of hair and put her in a state of submission. You will note that she is perfectly compliant when force is applied. Despite the fact that I had been washing my hair in a stagnant malaria-infested puddle of water on the bank of the Chicago River, the Mayor was powerless to resist my persuasive tactics.












We noticed that Amber's moustache had an interesting Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show feel about it. She appears to be twirling her moustache and looking for a spittoon.









My moustache turned out to be very Salvador Daliesque. This is not surprising as all things Salvador Dali irritate me. If trapped in the nightmarish scenario of a campus dorm during Rush Week, you will note that posters of his art are inescapable. Any random door you open will inevitably reveal a Salvador Dali print accompanied with Zetta Tau Alphas eating Jello shots and committing lewd acts with hedgehogs while the Indigo Girls play on repeat in the background.











Commentary on the Cricket's moustache will be postponed until her completely pickled expression is evaluated. Take a look her mug. What you don't know is that this photograph was actually taken while the Cricket was on the toilet. Had I panned down a bit with the camera before snapping this shot you would understand her disjointed grimace.
Her moustache is a bit wispy and bedraggled; I'm not sure that
it's entirely believable--although the verdict is still out.






The Escape Goat is a master of disguise, so donning a moustache was just another day in the life of. She even jutted her chin at an appropriately masculine angle. Too bad the Chicago Kings have dissipated; the Escape Goat would have made an excellent honorary King.










After our fun with faux facial hair it was time for the Cricket to open a present. We weren't sure if our present was a good present or a seemingly thoughtless present. The Mayor averted her gaze from the moment of unveiling. Below she heckles a senior citizen who served in two World Wars and saw Lincoln reelected.



Below, the Escape Goat (clearly feeling self-conscious about our choice of gifts for the Cricket) is seen defending a portable Sudoko game. This is but a snippet of the dialogue:

ESCAPE GOAT: And. And. We were thinking--you know--there's that New York trip you have coming up, and uh. You know what a snore airports are in this post nine-eleven era. Sudoko's the game of champions! I heard Werner Herzog's making a documentary about it, and--
CRICKET: Yeah, I..
ESCAPE GOAT: I mean. I don't think you have to know Math, but...(trail's off) Can you count to ten?
CRICKET: I mean. I love games--
ESCAPE GOAT: Yeah. All games? Right? I mean--you play Sudoko, right?
CRICKET: I mean. You know. I can count to ten. I don't usually have to, but when forced--you know. I.
ESCAPE GOAT: Yeah.
CRICKET: Yeah. So. Nice Jacket. I think King Brian has the same jacket?
ESCAPE GOAT: Nah. I think the texture's different. His is valor--mine's corduroy. Kings!Thank gawd we have a democratically elected leader!
CRICKET: Yeah. Democracy.
ESCAPE GOAT: Democracy.
CRICKET: Uh. Want another shot?
ESCAPE GOAT: Of heroine?



As promised the Cricket sent around shots for all. Round two!



Despite my attempt at feigning narcolepsy, I couldn't avoid a shot of that potent elixir. Below the Cricket passes out the second round. I warned her that I was documenting the moment incase I expired. Should a sleuthing detective review my camera he or she would note that the Cricket was a murderess. She refused to listen to reason and I drank up...



Again, we toasted the Cricket's good fortune. Note how gingerly Al holds the glass, his pinky finger daintily poised...



After an evening of debauchery, this shot was our demise...



The Escape Goat reacted especially jarringly. She could not find words to express the Civil War between tangy and tar being waged in her mouth. Swallow, Escape Goat, swallow! As Margaret Thatcher said to George Bush senior leading up to the Gulf War, "Don't go wobbly!"



In her glory the Cricket was unstoppable! As the Escape Goat drooled like a somnambulant, the Cricket enjoyed a delicious Cadbury Egg. Personally, I find those eggs repugnant and I am suspicious of the gelatinous fluid that they harbor. They remind me of the incubator pods in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not the Cricket! She relishes this sweet treat like the Minx relishes long walks on the beach with Dryfus.


This is step one for indulging in a Cadbury Egg: First, bite the egg and enjoy the wretched leaking fluid as it seeps out and coagulates between your teeth. If it burns, you are probably ingesting battery acid planted as a prank by an angry-mutant-chocolate-egg-laying-chicken. Know that the chicken is having a laugh at your expense, and--thanks to the battery acid--your mouth has been replaced with a cavernous chasm.

Step two: Savor the taste. Allow your palette to absorb the sugary goodness. Swish the mysterious substance around in your mouth like you are Alpana Singh sizing up a vintage French wine. You will note that the Cricket's method involves
allowing half of the sugary yolk to cradle in the remaining portion of the eggshell. To accomplish this feat you must be an expert Cadbury Egg connoisseur; few have mastered this method.

Finally, in the words of Colonel Sanders, "It's finger-lickin' good!" Who knew that the absence of eleven herbs and spices could taste so magnificent? Although the Cricket savors each bite,
she privately confessed to me that the fingers are the best!

After some time the evening came to a close. Below the Escape Goat, Cricket, and a portion of Al bid each other a fond farewell. It was a happy evening, and a wonderful opportunity to celebrate with the Cricket. If you are ever so fortunate to receive an invite to one of her excellent events it would be your loss should you decline!