My Onion Bloometh Over

My cold continues to hang out, and right now I feel like somebody kicked my ass. Seriously, my stomach and jaw ache and I can barely stand up. So if you've been kicking my ass while I was sleeping, KNOCK IT OFF!

I went to the local Outback Steakhouse for dinner with mom tonight. We don't usually eat there because it's ridicuspensive, but she had a gift-card and I thought some of their potato soup might ease my aching throat.

The food: Delicious.
The Decor: Ehh, not so much.

Theme restaurants are always weird, but when you go to, say, Planet Hollywood, you're indulging in a fantasy. With Outback, there's a layer of authenticity implied by the fact that there's an actual place called Australia that you can go to. Heck, you can even be king if you make a deal with a Phantom Zone Criminal. And sometimes girls from there post on the ISB!

Above our booth, there was a framed print that read, in part, "Ah well, I suppose it has come to this," a sentiment I couldn't help agree with as I looked over the menu. I mean, "Aussie-tizers" and "Bonzer salads" are bad enough, but calling the Bloomin' Onion an Ab-original Treat? Cripes!

It's enough to make a man go crazy. I mean, this might just be the disease talking, but I've seen more authentic dialogue from Captain Boomerang, and that guy's named CAPTAIN FRIGG'N BOOMERANG.

I don't know why it bothers me. Maybe it's because the last time I heard the word "aboriginal" was when I was up in Canada, and Melanie's mom pointed out their local Aboriginal Centre.

"You guys have aborigines up here?" I asked. "Oh, wait, you mean Indians. Yeah, I guess you can't call 'em Native Americans..."