Through a combination of half-off coupons, boredom, and bad judgement, my sister and I went to Old Country Buffet yesterday.
The food was, as we expected, bland and starchy; not terrible, but not worth the full-price, either. The food was boring, and not worth writing about.
What was worth writing about, however, was the company. There was some baseball game or scrimmage or something that got rained out, and one of the teams went to Old Country Buffet to drown their sorrows in mass quanities of luke-warm cheap meat. Through sheer luck, my sister and I got to sit at a table surrounded by athletic 17 and 18 year old guys.
It was very, very nice.
They talked loudly, posturing their masculinity in the way that guys first sprouting facial hair must. The story I remember most was a bat found in a lockerroom upstate somewhere, and how they caught it in a gym bag and made a hot, slutty girl carry said bag, and she opened it, and what proceded was sophomoric hilarity surpassed by nothing.
It was all very jocular, like a jailbait Jackass.
It was a bit muggy out, and so almost all of them were wearing khaki shorts, and they had wonderful calves. (I'm a big fan of nice legs.) These guys were much more appetizing than the food being offered.
We finished eating, and felt disgusted with ourselves for eating the crap there. My sister went out to the car, while I headed to the bathrooms. On my way to the exits, one of the guys, who must have caught me gawking at his teammates' sculpted legs, or noticed my outfit (small tshirt, buttonfly jeans, and GAP flipflops) (totally more gay-looking than what I normally wear), muttered "faggot" as I was walking by, loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough to rise over the din of overweight people and a fully-stocked buffet.
As the group of guys near him laughed, I turned around, grabbed the hem of my imaginary dress, curtsied and got the fuck out of there.
