Smugidity

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just made up a word. Smugidity. In case you're wondering, Yes, I watched the newest South Park last night. And it was MUCH more fulfilling than last week's episode. If you didn't see it, Kyle's dad gets a hybrid car and becomes a smug asshole—he closes his eyes when he talks and loves the smell of his own farts. (I'm starting to realize that maybe it isn't as funny when you read it.)

Anywho (I brought up Smugidity for a reason), you guys remember when I bitched about a $10 sandwich? OK, I've changed my mind. Give me a ten-fucking-dollar sandwich any day. Last night for our anniversary, my girlfriend and I went to this Brazilian restaurant we'd heard about for a while, Gaucho's Grill. I should've seen it coming, if only its location (in West Little Rock, the snobby part of town) was any indication.

Fifty-four goddamn dollars for me and my girl to eat—and we drank WATER. And not only was it expensive, but the "Smugidity" in there was borderline unbearable. You go in there and they give you a plate and something to drink, then a bunch of people walk around and bring you all these different kinds of meat. They act like you're stupid when you don't know the spices they put on the lamb rotisserie. The waitresses are snobby. The owner walks around and asks everyone how they're doing. I told him my back hurt and I had a rash on the back of my leg that just wouldn't go away, and he just looked at me blankly and moved on. You asked motherfucker.

I remember saying to my girlfriend, "The smug is so thick in here I can barely breathe." Now that I think about it, our waitress did sort of close her eyes when she talked to us. But instead of smelling their own farts, I think they smelled each others' farts.