There was a particular Chinese restaurant in my area I use to eat at all the time. They had great food and a buffet that was simply out of this world! I loved to have lunch there. And every time I met a new chick, that’s where I’d take her to dine. The owner of the restaurant acknowledged that I came in with numerous pretty girls. Sometimes she’d wink at me letting me know she knew. Never was one to date Asian women. But this old gal was different. She had long, beautiful hair and I swear she must have had breast implants. Because most of the Chinese women I knew didn’t have 38-double D’s like hers. When paying my bill, I always told her to keep the change. Smiling at me, I wondered if it was me she liked or my money clip full of fifty and hundred dollar bills. Sure was a pretty little lady. Never thought of having sex with her, although I couldn’t help but to ogle at her tits from time to time.

One day, Brenda and I had just finished our chicken fried rice and egg rolls (not to be confused with yummy-yummy egg rolls in a previous blog titled the same), when my date announced she was going to the lady’s room. While she was gone, Sushi Sue came and started taking our dishes away. “How are you today?” I smiled and asked the hot little fox as she bent down to wipe my area showing me her less than ample cleavage. “Me fine. You know me mother, she like you. She think you coolest American she ever seen. You should talk to her sometime. Ask her out on date. She single you know.” Surprised at how bold this young geisha girl was in attempting to fix me up with her mama-sahn, but wanting to be nice, I replied, “Oh cool. Tell her I’ll give her a call. My name’s Trip, if you didn’t know.” Smiling, the young Chinese girl, every bit as pretty as her mother, turned and sashayed away.

“She’s cute, huh?” said Brenda when returning from the lady’s room. “Yeah, she’s okay. But you know me. I’m not really into Asian women. I like blondes. Now let’s me and you go do a couple of lines of coke and get naked! What do ya say?” I laughed and teased. I then took a five dollar bill and three ones out of my shirt pocket and left them under the fortune cookie tray as a tip. “Here! Wait!” said Brenda. “Aren’t you going to read your fortune?” “Nah, you know I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. Pick one for both of us and you read it to me.” I said. After paying for lunch and on the way out the door, Brenda snapped the fortune cookie in half and read. “Your love life is about to change for the better.” “Yeah, right” I said. “I believe that like I believe there’s a man in the moon! Now, get in the car. You like candy? Cause I got an all day sucker here with your name written all over it,” I teased.

Two weeks later, I returned to my favorite restaurant. But this time, with a different girl and her two kids. At 9 years old, my girlfriend Kim’s son Cameron was a mean little fucker. He was totally off the chain and out of control, saying words that would make the meanest teenagers blush. “Cameron, I’ll give you five bucks if you eat some of that red hot sauce in that bottle with the rooster and Chinese writing on the side.” I told him. “Is it real hot Uncle Allen?” he inquired. “Nah, even the wimpiest could turn the bottle up and drink that stuff!” I said. “Don’t tell him that Allen!” said his mom knowing that particular hot sauce would light a mother fucker up to no end. Shaking his head “no,” he smiled at me, his four front teeth missing, knowing he wanted that five bucks like crazy. “Ten bucks,” I said. Again, Cameron the terror shook his head “no.” “Okay, fifteen is my final offer. And look!” I said when squirting a little of the sauce on my fried rice. “I’ll even try some of it myself. I’m not a wimp!”

The waitress came and asked if everything was alright—did we need anything. And I asked her to bring us another round of Cokes. When she left, I laid three five-dollar bills on the table and squirted a big bunch of killer red hot sauce on Cameron’s rice. “What’ll it be? Just tell me you’re weak. Just tell me you’re a wimp and it’ll all be okay. I’m sure your little sister Jessie would like to have that fifteen. Let me find out you’re a real wimp.” Challenging this little terror, knowing his mother was going to be pissed, but perhaps even getting a little revenge after the 15 minute sailor mouth session he gave his mother on the ride over where she just took it and did not punish him at all, not even to tell him to be quiet! Grabbing the three Abe Lincolns, Cameron shoved a mouthful of hot saturated rice in his craw and began to chew.”Gotta swallow it all or it’s no deal!” I said. He did Then all of a sudden, his face turned beet red, eyes started bulging out of their sockets and he started gasping for air. “Damnit Tripper!” his mom screamed while hitting me on the shoulder. “Cameron! Take a drink of your soda before you pass the fuck out!” she said. I gave him a glass of milk that the pretty little waitress brought with the cokes, and told him to drink it up, it would go away and next time to think about that burn when he spoke to his momma. Yeah, old Cameron baby’s mouth was literally on fire there for a while. As a souvenir, I bought him a bottle of the Chinese hot sauce to take home with him when we left.

Time now to leave, I tipped my favorite waitress and walked toward the front. “Kim, take the kids and go on out to-the car. I’ll be there in a minute. I want to get a bottle of this hot sauce to go.” “Hi!” I said to the little Asian lady who owned the restaurant and always flirted with me. “That’ll be twenty-dowwa. Everything okay?” she asked. “Just fine,” I said when pulling out a wad of bills from my jacket pocket. Peeling off a twenty and an extra five for the sauce, I didn’t notice it at first, but apparently I’d dropped a quarter paper of cocaine on the counter. “Shit!” I said grabbing for the ziplock baggy full of powder at the same time as the hostess who said, “This my tip? This for me?” “If you say so,” I replied still in shock and really not knowing what to do. Embarrassed and a bit shaken I hurried on out to my Cadillac.

From that day forth, that lady never would leave me alone. She even invited me to the back one time where we shared a couple of lines snorted from a chopping block in the kitchen. She was cute and all. But as I mentioned before. I wasn’t into Asian chicks. I’d only dated one before. And she was a hooker and way, way too skinny for me. “You sure are handsome man. Sure you wouldn’t like to take me out on date some time?” she asked grabbing me by the forearm, running her hands up to my biceps adding, “Ooh! You so big and strong!” “Maybe later,” I said and smiled, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Leaving the back and heading out the front door, I thought to myself … think maybe she’s like one of those chicks in the movies— me love you long time? Who knows. All I know is, I got the hell out of there and after that and stopped eating Chinese buffet. Take it easy everyone. I’m Tripper, Better Days!

Depending on how you look at it, the inventor of Ramen Noodles should have their ass kicked. Or should they? Are ramen noodles, in all their glory, the greatest invention known to mankind? Or, are they the suckiest? All I know is, I was in prison five long years before I ever had the nerve, the urge and the need to try any. They basically looked tasteless to me. Also, thinking to myself when I first saw any, I thought anything purporting to be a meal at a cost of a mere dime had to be shitty. Was that some of the same crap I use to smell the dune coons cooking when I went in to rent cheap motel rooms all over the United States? Sure some stinky ass shit! I told myself there was no way I was ever going to eat one of those cheap ass ramen noodle soups. Then one day I got both broke and hungry. I broke weak. I gave in. And the rest as they say … is history!

There are hundreds of things you can add to a Ramen Noodle soup in an effort to make it tasty. But when it’s all said and done, the soup’s still in there. Full of starch; the little flavor packets so full of sodium they shoot your blood pressure through the roof. Everything about a ramen is unhealthy. Yet with the bullshit food service sometimes feeds you in these places, you’d better have a soup or two stashed back for emergency purposes. Because if you don’t, you very well could starve to death or go hungry. Ramen noodle soups run thirty-cents a piece here in federal prison. But I can still remember back when they cost a dime. A former homeless person who just came in on vacation, told me Ramens are only fifteen-cents at the grocery store. The Wal-Mart no frills brand is only a dime. Seems like they’re robbing us here at double and triple that. Which I know, you are thinking 30 cents, but really, it adds up quickly when you have very little money to work with. No matter, I rarely buy them anyway.

In prison, a bare bones Ramen Noodle soup without anything added to it is called a “butt naked.” And a mother fucker’s gotta be pretty hard up to eat one of those. But it does happen. The more inventive inmate might add a shot of squeeze cheese (imitation cheese product of course) or a summer sausage or fresh jalapeño to make their meal a bit more tasty. Others throw in everything but the kitchen sink. Some use ramen as “stretcher,” making everything from tacos to burritos. Again, I only eat them when it’s absolutely necessary. As a matter of fact, I ate my very first butt naked in eight years just the other night. Had to. The so-called lasagna in the kitchen that night was made with ground turkey. So spoiled and rancid, everyone tossed it in the dish window on the way out the chowhall door. Ate the butt naked and suffered indigestion until the wee hours of the morning before finally being able to fall off to sleep. Last time I’ll ever do that again.

Some of these assholes eat their ramen soups raw. Munching on the brittle shit like it were some kind of gourmet potato chip or something. Now you know that dry ass crap has to swell up in your stomach once swallowed. Seems like it might blow their asses up, kinda like what happens to a pigeon or seagull when you feed it an alka-seltzer. Not that I’ve ever fed a squab or erne a plop-plop fizz-fizz for that matter. Heh! Heh! No raw noodles for me. No noodles at all if I can help it. No stomping on the packages thrown to the floor to crunch them up before cooking. No eating packages of ramen noodles with little holes gnawed in the sides by the neighborhood mice. And no standing over the shitter throwing my guts up after eating a chili or lime shrimp flavored soup. Again, no bullshit ramen noodle soups at all if I can help it. If I can, I’ll leave them to the psych patients, the idiots and the extremely poor, that being those who don’t even get the 50 spot monthly that I do from my dear friend Nic. Lord knows she’s tried to help me avoid the butt naked ramens over the years.

What kind of machine makes those fucked up noodles anyway? Something resembling an early Scottish or Chinese loom? And where are they made? In India? Malaysia? Or maybe Singapore? Surely they don’t make those shitty mother fuckers right here in the good old U.S. of A? Because if they do, the CEO of that company should be executed by firing squad. Funny though, when I got out of prison in ‘94 I said to myself … I’m going to buy me a bunch of ramen noodle soups and put them up in the kitchen cabinet and save them for hard times. Well, times never got hard enough for me. They sat in the cabinet until they went bad, which in reality I don’t guess they ever do. The only two things that’ll survive a nuclear holocaust are cockroaches and ramen noodle soups. And by the way, cockroaches won’t even get near ramen noodles. Neither will prison piss ants for that matter. The local mice population does enjoy them however.

Those of my readers who have been in state or federal prison, know what I’m saying is true. Ramen noodles are the pits. They’re only good if you’re flat ass starving to death and you have, just HAVE to eat something in order to stay alive! Starving natives in Ethiopia probably don’t even eat ramen. Chicken, beef or shrimp flavor, they all taste and suck the same to me. Give me bread and water any day! I can honestly say, once out of federal prison this time, I’ll never, ever eat another worthless ramen noodle soup again. The mere sight of one of the cheap ass packages might make me go ballistic! In closing, when I was a little kid in grade school and I didn’t like something, there was something I’d always say. A phrase me and my mean little friends would always use. And at this point and time I’ll say it for all the world to hear! Ramen Noodles Suck Green Donkey Dick! And I am Tripper! Better Days!

Welcome to Sonic! May I take your order please?

Do you have a Sonic Drive-in in your city or town? I’ve been eating at and hanging around the Sonic for years. Especially so as teenager and young adult male when I owned and drove all my hotrod cars. The first Sonic we ever had in Fort Smith was located on North Greenwood near Sally Ann’s. Everyone hung out there. As a matter of fact, it was actually a part of the cruise. I did burnouts in my Chevelle through the Sonic. I got into physical altercations there. Hell, I even dated some of the good lookin’ Sonic carhops - blondes, brunettes and redheads. If they had big tits and got off at ten, I took them riding around with me and tried to get in their pants. One girl had tits so big you could see her nipples through her bra, shirt and Sonic uniform top all three! Oops! Kind of got off the subject there. I smoked pot at the Sonic, spiked my Sonic cherry limeades with gin, and snorted speed and cocaine off of aluminum Sonic trays. I was one of the guys sitting in a cool car with the hood off so all the passersby could see my solid chrome big block with a polished tunnel ram and two fours.

I remember when they filmed segments of “The Simple Life” starring Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton at Sonic 2 in Van Buren. Pretty big deal for Hollywood to be doing stuff in our little part of the world. There use to be a carhop at that same Sonic who always bought weed. On payday she’d call me up from work having gathered money from all the other carhops, cooks, and even the manager. And I’d deliver bags of pot to them at the back door. Needless to say, all the employees at that particular Sonic were stoned. I really liked the carhop named Suzanne. A petite little bleach blonde, she reminded me of Gwen Stefani formerly of the Anaheim California rock band No Doubt. Yeah, cops, firemen and city council members all ate lunch at the Van Buren Sonic. And believe it or not, I even sold pot to some of them too. I once met a state trustee driving a deputy’s car at the Sonic to slip him a bag. He’d just taken the car in for a lube. I sat in the cruiser with him for a moment. First time I’d ever been in the front of a cop car. The carhop who brought out our drinks didn’t know what to think she saw the two of us sitting there taking hits off a bong!

I wasn’t the only one breaking the law at the Sonic by selling their employee weed. Hell, some of them sold weed and speed too. Then there were the burglaries and robberies and the sex freak that use to flash the carhops. He’d pull up in his Firebird, order a drink, and wait for the teenage girl to bring his Slushy. When she finally arrived and handed it to him and said, “That’ll be 95c sir.” There he’d sit with a dollar bill in one hand and his dick in the other. Fortunately, the sick and twisted pervert finally got busted and sent to the joint. Then there was the time when a huge fist fight broke out between a young group of high school hoods that called themselves the Southside Delts. Apparently, a couple of these boys had rednecked a little friend of my cousin Dean’s and whipped his ass. Dean and his friend Larry, not wanting the little pieces of shit to get away with it, decided to retaliate and take on the whole group. To make a long story short, Dean and Larry both got their asses kicked. But not before they tore down the entire white picket fence surrounding the Sonic first.

Many a time I pulled up at the Sonic tripping so hard on LSD that I couldn’t even order my drink. I’d push the button on the pole and when the chick said, “Welcome to the Sonic! May I take your order please?” I’d just laugh and laugh and laugh! And there wasn’t even anything funny. Don’t know why that always happened. Guess it was something like a tradition for me. Do you don’t know how many times I stole that Sonic tray so I could roll joints on it or take it home so I could clean out my weed! Everyone knew they were good for sifting the seeds using their driver’s license. All the seeds neatly rolling to the bottom lip of the tray. Hell, everyone I knew had at least one Sonic tray at home and many had another in their car. And for a while there, my freezer at home was stuffed full of burgers I’d traded for pot. Cases upon cases of pre-made patties snuck to me out the back door. Yeah, I ate Sonic food even when I didn’t pull up outside to order.

It’s been over eight years now since I’ve had a Sonic cheeseburger, an order of tater tots or a cherry limeade spiked with Gilbey’s 100 proof gin. No cute little carhops dressed in red and white smocks bringing me my order with a smile. Sometimes these correctional officers will bring in a sack full of Sonic burgers and fries and I’ll smell the aroma of real hamburger, not this imitation shit they serve us here. Sonic is one of the first places I plan to go eat upon my release from prison in late 2014. That is if they’re still around. Too old to flirt with and pick up the carhops any more. Fifteen calendar years in the joint this time has just about done me in. Saw a Sonic commercial on TV this afternoon which brought me to write this blog. Ah the memories … fast cars, cute girls, the extra long chili dogs and onion rings. If you see an old hippy with long hair and tattoos sitting at the Sonic in a GTO one day. It might be me. Come over and say hello and we’ll do a line or two off a tray, smoke a joint, and I’ll buy you a Coke. I am Tripper! Better Sonic Days!