Oh, language!

Currently sitting in Time's Cafe to surf the web, as episode seven of Celebrity Deathmatch: Rainy Season v. Leaky Roof is called "I Woke Up on Friday and My Modem was Sitting in a Puddle." At first I thought the possessive in the name of this cafe was another "Oh, you!" malapropism, but judging by the well-intentioned attempt at retro Americana decor (John Lennon poster next to Rosie the Riveter poster next to Rolling Stones poster, all above vaguely dinerish furniture), it may actually be that the owner really wanted to give time a restaurant of it's very own. Next up: Space's Cafe, featuring fifty years' worth of broken satellites hanging from the ceiling and lots of Dippin' Dots served by furtive looking cosmonauts.

The pizza here, made with real mozzarella cheese, was much superior to the pizza I had last weekend, which was made with emmental cheese, i.e. Swiss, i.e. gross. Both pizzas were served with the option of mustard, ketchup, and hot sauce. Only the ketchup actually tasted as it should (America!), but then I realized I was eating pizza with ketchup, so that was the end of that.

(Currently on the sound system: Rock Around the Clock remixed with various Elvis tunes, followed by Fleetwood Mac. Time, you're confusing me.)

Now that this weekend's pizza has surpassed last weekend's pizza, I hope that the prostitutes I saw last weekend, who mostly just seduced themselves by dancing in Electric Slide formation in front of a mirror at an Atlantic City-esque bar called Calypso, will similarly be outshone by whatever tonight has to offer. I expect the Cha Cha Slide in Vegas.