Most people don't realize that of all of the contributors here at IMAO, I've been here the longest.

Well, except for Frank J. But that goes without question. Because those that question it find themselves stuffed into Wal-Mart shopping carts and rolled across busy freeways. (When was the last time you saw a post by Rachel Lucas?)

Anyway, the guest-post from February 23, 2003 was a milestone in Frank J's blogging achievements to show that:

• Guest-bloggers don't have to wear his T-shirts.
• Guest-bloggers don't have to all end up marrying him (ask Right Wing Duck about that Civil Union thing)
• Guest-bloggers back then didn't do it for pay... they did it for the love of the game.

Ah, but the real secret to that post was the following:

Even the "endless" pasta bowl at the Olive Garden is just a metaphor, you know. They just keep bringing you different bowls.

Frank J. showed up on my doorstep that night, holding a .45 and a bottle of Jack Daniels, reeking of basil and toluene. Lighting struck in the background, which normally wouldn't make sense because it was a nice sunny day, but weather's weird here in Houston. You can have a bright sunshiny day and have a torrential downpour, finished off by locusts, frogs, and Mexicans who actually pay for their own healthcare services.

FRANKJ: Lair, I've got terrible news.
LAIR: Glenn Reynolds is really a robot?
FRANKJ: No, worse... come with me

So I went with him to the Olive Garden, and he and I both ordered the endless pasta bowls.

FRANKJ: Watch, as I mark this bowl with a permanent marker.
LAIR: That's a breadstick you're holding, Frank.
FRANKJ: Do not question the ninja master!

Seeing as how I had no desire to go skittering across I-45 in a child safety seat surrounded by a cheap aluminum frame, I didn't just refrain from questioning Frank, but I refrained from ending sentences with question marks for the next month.

In the silence, he pulls out a marker, and marks the pasta bowl with a marker. Then, with one great tip of the bowl, he literally quaffs his Garlic And Olive Oil Ziti.

There was a bell on the table. He instructed me to ding it gently to summon the waiter.

FRANKJ: Alfredo Angel-hair, chop chop!
WAITER: Yes, sir.
LAIR: You know, I might try that, too...
FRANKJ: Silence, or I shall be pugilistic with you!

Which made no sense, since he had a broken bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. I mean, he was more likely to headbutt me or maybe kick me in the groin than to put down either object. (He had gone to the bathroom at some point, and neither object had left his clutches, making one wonder at the events in the intervening two minutes.)

I get distracted so easily. Where was I? Oh, and when the waiter returns, the bowl is placed before him.

FRANKJ: Look! Look, Hebrew glutton, and despair!
LAIR: Yeeeaaaarrrghhhh! You spilled hot paste on my lap.
FRANKJ: Look! The Mark! The bowl bears The Mark!

And sure enough, just as I had first-degree burns on my crotch and permanent stains on my trousers, the bowl had Frank's marking on it.

FRANKJ: They use.... the same... BOWL!

I never did learn why FrankJ reeked of toluene as I ran screaming into the wilderness, but I have never went back to Olive Garden now that I know their hideous secret.

That mark still burns in my eyes. That hideous mark... that evil, wicked mark...

My eyes have seen the signposts along the shores of the River Styx, and I shall never order pasta again.

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