Logan's Roadhouse, 215 Cabela Drive, Triadelphia, WV 26059

One of those brand new, semi-affordable, country western themed steakhouses opened in the Highlands a week ago.  I'm generally not a big fan of something I refer to as the "kickin' atmosphere phenomenon."  Saf, how would you define what constitutes that which is "kickin?"  Well, did a 22 year old female hostess prop the main door open and greet you with...

"Howdy partner!  Ready to get your grub on?"

If this happened... well, that means it's kickin.'  Truthfully, I'm not a big fan of the wannabe cowboy movement.  Not only do I generally loathe all things Texas (with the notable exception of J.R. Ewing - he was the perfect, classic villain), I'm just not too hip on line dancing, rough and tumble Midwestern jargon and the whole rodeo circuit milieu.  But there is one problem I have that easily  supersedes all the other shit... the notion that throwing discarded peanut shells onto the floor is somehow a fun activity.  "Ohhh, not only do we git a bucket of free peanuts, ma.  We gits to throw 'em on the floor.  This is gonna be great!"  For many, this is an act of defiance and rebellion.  You see, under normal circumstances, throwing crap all over the floor is frowned upon.  But at Logan's Roadhouse??? 

Suffice to say, you don't have to play by the rules.  The second you enter the door, conventional norms just don't apply anymore.  You get to be a little different.  A little zanier.  Time to embrace your wild side I suppose.  And that's what makes their customers both cool and hip!

If one were to dissect all of America's problems (war, debt, entitlement society, complete lack of concern for the inevitable artificially generated stampedes, etc.), at the root of it all lies this bizarre, incessant desire to litter the floor with peanut shells.  Note: I truly believe this. 

So I met up with my buddies Mark and Dave and we went to Logan's for lunch.  I'd say it was crowded but not packed.  The place doesn't have a lunch menu, but it's not a big deal as most of the stuff is reasonably priced.  I surveyed the menu and it was mostly standard fare (burgers, steaks, salads and a mix of appetizers).  Rest assured, plenty of fixins' too.  I ordered something called "Hot Chicks."  This consisted of 3 narrowly carved, fried chicken tenders on slightly over-sized, yet still miniature, oxymoronic buns.  It came with shredded lettuce, tomato and a ramekin of spicy blue cheese dressing.  Sensing a confident, but measured jubilance, I decided to add "sweet potato fries" for an additional 99 cents.  As usual, I quenched my thirst with a water w/ lemon.  The seed of the aforementioned lemon... I threw it on the ground.

Dave and Mark both got burgers which they claimed tasted "frozen and/or processed."  They claimed the meal was mediocre at best.  My meal was slightly above average.  On a scale of 1-100, if 50 is average, I'd give my meal a 54.  The atmosphere was not entirely objectionable.  If you are able to consciously eliminate "peanut-on-the-floor funtimz," I'd give the ambiance a 42.  There seemed to be this annoying hum via the omnipresent, background music.  You couldn't discern the actual song.  It's sole purpose was just to make customers talk slightly louder than usual.  In the eyes of Logan's management, this probably helps with "getting the party started."  I call this phenomenon "Country Elevator music" better known as a "cunting-vator."   

All in all, I'd say the service was decent.  Cheerful and attentive.  Let's give it a 78.  At the conclusion of the meal, our waitress came over to pick up the checks.  My check total came to $9.10 and I left her $13.00.  This would make me a "generous jew fuck."  Not as generous as Sheldon Adelson though (he's the billionaire casino owner that gave 10 or 15 million to the failed 2012 Newt Gingrich campaign).

What Adelson lacked in vision, he makes up for in money I suppose.  Perhaps Newt could have used some of the funds for GRCS (gock reduction cosmetic surgery).  Gock (a combination of gut and cock) is the male equivalent of gunt (a mix of gut and cunt).

This also leads me to a great name for a pick-up rock band.  T.U.G., an acronym for Trampled Under Gunt.  Is that a bad ass name or what?  Assuming the stampedes hit, I imagine a few will perish via guntal asphyxiation.  I'm being serious here.  This observation is not intended as a joke. 

Now I think we can all agree - this represents a proud and noble, yet potentially smothering, life-threatening gunt.  It just has this disarming candor.  Saffy like.
And just for reference, if anyone out there has a fiduciary interest in any future gunting related endeavors, I checked godaddy and the domain name "gunterhunter.com" is currently available.  You could literally "snatch" it up for a mere pittance.  But I digress...  

Our waitress addressed us and said, "If you guys go online and complete this survey, just mention my name, and you'll get blah, blah, something."  I can't remember what she said exactly.   I think it was likely 10% off the next meal or a free appetizer or something comparable.

When I inquired, "How do we know what your name is?"  She pointed at the bill >>>  ECHO


I immediately thought of the scene in the movie JFK when two FBI agents are interrogating a woman who claimed to have heard additional gunshots.

JEAN HILL (V.O.)  

These new people never identified themselves. They must a been watching the whole thing 'cause they knew everything Mary and me had been doing that day. I guess I wasn't too hard to find -- wearing that red raincoat.

MAN  

How many shots you say you heard?

  JEAN HILL  

Four to six.

MAN  

That's impossible. You heard echoes . . . echoes. We have three bullets and three shots which came from the Book Depository and that's all we're willing to say.

"I've never met anyone named Echo, I countered."  She briefly recanted a warning from her father.  Due to the unusual nature of her name, he cautioned her not to expect much in the way of monogrammed birthday presents.  Sensing an opportunity to spread love and joy, I zipped outside to my vehicle and snagged the precious silver-cubed letters to construct a personalized hemp key chain.  I figured I'd throw it in with the tip.  Fortunately, her name was not Amanda (I've been really low on "A"s for the past six months). 

I was finishing up the key chain just as she returned to the table.  She remarked, "Oh wow, that's so cool.  How'd you make it so fast?"  She seemed relatively pleased.   But here's where things took a personal nosedive for me.  Slightly distracted by the calm, but celebratory banter, I FUCKING FORGOT MY TO-GO BOX OF LEFTOVERS.  In it were 2 out of three god damn mother fucking chicken minis.  I was going to save them for later.  And I also had absconded with a generous helping of peanuts and just enough iceberg lettuce and diced tomato chunks to make a small salad.  I had 2 ill-shaped, tiny cucumbers from Gigi's garden.  They were waiting in stand-by mode in my frig at home.  The sole purpose for their existence was to augment this potentially bitchin' salad.

I still fucking cannot believe I fucking forget my god damn fucking leftovers.  For the love of fucking god, why was I betrayed by Logan's Roadhouse?  My mind wandered to that one moment in the movie Casino where Joe Pesci warns Deniro that without him, every wiseguy would take a piece of his fucking jew ass.

This is very similar to what I encountered.  Except it was a tri-combination of my forgetfulness, Echo and the staff at Logan's.  Also, my ass is more of a fucking jew, atheist ass.  I kind of like the sound of that.  Has a nice ring to it.

Question: "What the hell is Saf's problem?"
Answer: "He's a godless ass."  That's his problem."