Let the Buyer Be Hungry

As you may recall, last week was Father's Day, my favorite holiday of the year.

My favorite holiday was Thanksgiving, but this year, there won't be much to be thankful for unless, by some miracle, we are able to kick this fat fascist monster out of the White House.

Besides, Thanksgiving has turned into so much work, what with the setting of the table, the preparation of two birds, the dirty dishes, and the always disappointing football games, including the obligatory loss by the Detroit Lions.

Plus, because my whiskey drinking usually starts at 11 AM, by the time the big meal is set out on the table, I'm too sloshed to be able to enjoy it. Or remember it.

No, Father's Day is my new favorite. On what other day of the year do my wife and daughters cater to my every need AND produce gifts with sentimental cards telling me how much they appreciate my over-providing for them?

Last week, my oldest provided me with the perfect gift, four Rib Eyes from Omaha Steaks. Due to a miscalculation with the US mail, it didn't arrive until Tuesday. The package came in a large styrofoam container that belied its size. You can imagine the drool dribbling down my chin as I eagerly opened the box.

Not to humblebrag, but I'm somewhat of a steak connoisseur. In fact, I owe my life in Southern California to my innate ability to grill the perfect steak, whether it's a New York Strip, a T-bone, the overrated Filet Mignon or the king of the butcher block, the Tomahawk. You see, for two wasted years of my life, I managed an incredibly popular steakhouse on Santa Monica Blvd. -- S.H. Kickers.

The restaurant was fashioned off a concept native to Texas. And my boss prided himself on serving the best quality meats in the largest quantity of styles. Our steaks started at 12 ounces and went all the way to 32. At one point, the owner wanted to mimic the Pecos Pete restaurant in San Antonio and sell a 72 ounce prime rib steak, with an added twist.

If a customer could clean his plate and demolish the steak within 30 minutes the bill would be a tin roof. What's a tin roof? It's on the house.

Anyway, back to my Omaha steaks.

Beautiful, aren't they?

Well, no they are not.

You see, just as I am no stranger to the carnivorous arts, I've also made a career in advertising, and am no stranger to the deceitful ways of the camera lens. You, like my daughter, have been duped. By an optical illusion.

Here's a better look at my inordinately expensive steaks from Nebraska.

Those are three US minted dimes laid across the top of the biggest filet.

That's not a steak, that's an hors d'ourves. That's an appetizer. I eat more beef than that as I'm carving up a tomahawk BEFORE I sit down to dinner.

Naturally, I got on the horn to the folks from Omaha. And unnaturally, they didn't argue the point or even ask any questions. They simply refunded my daughter's money immediately.

I thanked them and asked them to send me a return packing slip so I could Fedex the meat morsels back. They went one step better and said to keep the steaks.

They said, in essence, it was Tin Roof.