For my birthday, I wanted to go out for dinner. After giving the appropriate, appalled look at the suggestion of either Wendy's for chicken nuggets and Hooters for hot wings, we settled on a steak place that has a handful of locations throughout the state. (Yes, the gang thought very highly of anything where wings or birds were being eaten, but somehow that just didn't seem right to me.)

Call me silly, but menus sure beat ordering off of a light-up sign from the car window -- this is nice!	Maybe I had it coming by sitting on the table, but I don't think so. But it's day, so this was just rude.	I corrected the problem by getting myself my own perch, and just sat out in the aisle. Hmmph.
Dinner! I gave my fries to the boy, but they all forgot that the birthday duck doesn't cut his own steak.	After some subtle "ahem"-ing, I got one of my lackeys to do my will. Good knife control, huh.	They wouldn't sing to me (I guess you have to be at least 3 feet tall), but I still got the hat and cake.