wes
KIllerfrog Emeritus
If it Ain’t Herb’s…
by BudaFrog
One day Billy Clyde Puckett and I had the piss-poor idea to try to get him some chicken fried steak in Dallas. It was right after the Froggies ran up half-a-hundred against dog-ass SMU. I drove over to cover it for the Skiff. Of course, Billy Clyde spent most of his afternoon in the Mustang end zone. Right after the game though, Coach Tuggle booted Billy Clyde off the team bus for smacking a little Pony cheerleader’s hindquarters on his way off the field. Didn’t matter that she seemed to like it; Coach was old-fashioned about that stuff.
Anyway, I told Billy Clyde I’d give him a ride, but he made me pull over at a café about a block from the Cotton Bowl. Said he was hungry enough to eat “the hind end of a skunk.” I wasn’t hungry, so I just asked for an R.C. Cola. Billy Clyde ordered the chicken fried steak, but what the fat, red-faced waitress brought over looked more like a breaded piece of shoe leather, topped with a quart of wood glue.
“Uh, waitress, I ordered chicken fried steak, this looks like Alpo.”
“Listen, sugar, that’s how we serve it. Who do you think you are, the Mayor?”
“No, ma’am, I’m a TCU Horned Frog. And this slop ain’t fit to serve a Baylor Bear.”
I should’ve ordered my R.C. to go, because that’s what we were immediately invited to do.
The lesson? If it ain’t Herb’s, it ain’t really chicken fried steak.
by BudaFrog
One day Billy Clyde Puckett and I had the piss-poor idea to try to get him some chicken fried steak in Dallas. It was right after the Froggies ran up half-a-hundred against dog-ass SMU. I drove over to cover it for the Skiff. Of course, Billy Clyde spent most of his afternoon in the Mustang end zone. Right after the game though, Coach Tuggle booted Billy Clyde off the team bus for smacking a little Pony cheerleader’s hindquarters on his way off the field. Didn’t matter that she seemed to like it; Coach was old-fashioned about that stuff.
Anyway, I told Billy Clyde I’d give him a ride, but he made me pull over at a café about a block from the Cotton Bowl. Said he was hungry enough to eat “the hind end of a skunk.” I wasn’t hungry, so I just asked for an R.C. Cola. Billy Clyde ordered the chicken fried steak, but what the fat, red-faced waitress brought over looked more like a breaded piece of shoe leather, topped with a quart of wood glue.
“Uh, waitress, I ordered chicken fried steak, this looks like Alpo.”
“Listen, sugar, that’s how we serve it. Who do you think you are, the Mayor?”
“No, ma’am, I’m a TCU Horned Frog. And this slop ain’t fit to serve a Baylor Bear.”
I should’ve ordered my R.C. to go, because that’s what we were immediately invited to do.
The lesson? If it ain’t Herb’s, it ain’t really chicken fried steak.
