Rethinking dining at the Man's Head Inn
Current mood: hungry
Category: Food and Restaurants

Mij was getting hungry, and went around the corner to find an apt inn to whet his appetite, thinking he had come across Nej's vegetarian cuisine recommendation when he came across a porcine trio, Porthos, an alfalfa field subdivider, Athos a woodsman well smoked, and Aramis a bit of a stick in the mud, thick like a brick, and wearing a mason's ring, rather short for a threesome of Bores, drinking Ale under the sign, the Man's Head Inn.

Having been hard at work, with Cinders, the Woman Called God, his employer, and her husband on the defrost and remodel of HELL, and being new to the customs of the establishment, and what his own spiritual preferences were since killing the imposter known as God while forestalling and thwarting the pre-emptive strike of Armageddon, the US Navy SEAL went in without mentioning that he was in the mood for bacon and eggs, hardly a strict vegan, though he didn't notice any salad on the menu.

Turned out to be a bit of Baptist sort of place, as when he asked where the John was, a bearded fellow, cerebral looking, and but a well roasted meat covered skull, was presented, apparently crime of eating milk and honey in a land of its the water, and unfortunately having been ordered up by a dancing lass who actually had ordered some head, not his head, as she was in that mood, erotic dancer in need of incentive in a performance without cash or likely lap dance prohibition, put John's head on a plate, and was the blue light, blue plate, and after a bit of time as the featured blue blooded family special of the Man's Head Inn, seemed a bit too moldy for Mij to order, and went to find the can.

En route, he noticed other tables and food counters decorated with such Ichabod Crane nuanced Sleepy Hollow fodder for thought, with a bit of heady wine to go with, and porcine Head waiter to point him to the head waters of the bathroom he sought, perhaps to go bulimic, as he passed by the gastric delights that made the Man's Head, (no, no bobbitted johnsons here) unique, the heads of Robespierre, Mary Queen of Scots and Anne Bolynne for that French combo per capita bargain or royal revolution in cerebral presentation, Shrunken heads for a more New world delicacy, already deboned for better skulls on the side, and bite size delights, and various unknowns but just as surprised to be entered on the plate notables that indeed you could tell, obviously the heady place to be, when dining in the vicinity of HELL. Turned out to be on the actual half way point to Hell, and problem for the survey crew of Bon Scott, Angus and Malcolm.

Given he had the remodel contract, Mij asked the pigs what prompted them to open the establishment. Revenge for the spread of pubs like the boar's head, etc.

No, merely had inherited a collection from Ripley's believe or not, when P.T. Barnum had gone out of business, a certain Mr. Wolf had blown Porthos and Athos out of their houses only to be cooked after his heart attack while at the masonry walls of Aramis's kilns, where the wolf properly dried, cooked, flattened, flailed and ever endowed into small children's memory as the fellow who assaulted Grandma and red riding hood, Aramis simply had found a use for his other crockery and crack pot ideas, in a location that couldn't be beat, half way to hell, where the carts en route to Paris often dropped out of the guillotine baskets a certain amount of known personages, as if the Royalty of the axe weren't enough to establish this meaty practice, that encouraged the make up for the straw man, Porthos, sale of left over alfalfa sprouts, topped by the cinnamon bark of Athos, only surviving commodity after Wolf torched his carpenter's shop, that would sell with John's miraculous water from the house of decapitated Lords, order the bath of blood, that surely made this perdition and purgatory at its best.

confused by all the bad buns, wierd associations, Mij offered them a franchise relocation fee, as he had AC DC waiting to pave the highway through this path, as a penalty for no adequate handicap accessilbe bathrooms facility, to move the hole operation into the deep freeze area his employer told him likely needed something a bit more definitive, as the possible food station for actual staff in Hell.

He did find the alfalfa sprouts delicious, as was the ale he confiscated, the cinnamon magnifique, and the pigs, hmmmmmmm.......... Mij remembered the handbasket room, no spring chickens, but indeed, ......eggs. The smoked one reminded him again, what his stomach hungered for, and glad he had yet to lose his head, perhaps the chance had come............ where was that dancer?

She got the jack! TNT...............ooops, match is lit,

we would get into surveying terms at this point, as obviously some sort of AC DC Highway to Hell gag should be in here, and the survey team, as many surveyors would tell you, would be adjusting the site of the instrument on the target, asking the target man to move said string, or target, or component up or down what is often euphemistically consider gauche, or politically and socially incorrect form of noun, used as a modifier, of the female genetalic anatomy, rather than the area formation or location, known as pubic, in conjunction with the term hair, as the measure of distance by which the universe is measured. Mij has no comment from Cinders if this unit somehow came to be originally from her, first female with same sort of hairs in place, apparently of a dark hue, though amorphous, beautiful and apparently not particularly shy or inhibited, Mij thought it best not to speculate on whether or not the black and pink dye job concealed a true blonde, and see if perhaps her husband, or that guy might know, or if the MASH Sally Kellerman shower scene would expose the truth, that one blonde C hair was all he was off in this part of the universr. Nevertheless if you have never heard this is the true nature of actual surveying accuracy, well now you know. Better not to have one on your plate, or stuck to your plate, or in your dentures or between your teeth, if not in the mood to lose your head in the effort to give head, or head less up your Lass than usual. so endeth the motto of the Man's Head Inn.