We need a bus cause we got no grunt

Recently, I was afforded the dubious pleasure of a road trip outside of Hammistan. Generally, I'm a travel enthusiast. I subscribe to the road trip manta that the journey is just as important - if not moreso - than the destination. However, I don't think that philosophy took into account the possibility of loathing the destination... in this case, Branson.

Lemme just start out here by saying that I despise Branson. It's a traffic-snarled Vegas wannabe trading on lameass bumpkin "comedy" shows that couldn't make the cut on Hee-Haw and aging "stars" desperately milking their one or two quasi-hits from fourty years ago. Further clogging the catastrophicly ill-planned city streets are all manner of hucksters for worthless plastic crap. Sprinkled amongst that ballast are one or two real talents (Ray Stevens, Boxcar Willie, Yakov Smirnov) and a couple of really good buffet restaurants. In short, the few things worth going there for just make you sad to see them pissed away in the surrounding wasteland.
Now, I'm well aware I'm treading on dangerous ground with some of my fellow BB2 cyberhousemates. They're quite obviously big fans of the Branson Massacree, with the full orchestration and five-part harmony, and all kinds of things... wheras I am so not that.
In deference to my loathing of the town, my road trip compatriots agreed to just do Branson-Lite. No "Dolly." No buffets. No Yakov. (perish the thought!) So I signed on for a drive across the lake and a whole day of Silver Dollar City.

Maybe it's just me here, but did SDC go out of their way to find the slowest most incompetent people possible to work their foodservice, or what? Their big feature this spring is "The House of Barbecue" or somesuch. When my posse of rib-eatin motherfuckers rolled up at 12:30 - square in the middle of lunchtime - they didn't have jack shit for barbecue. All that was left were a few chicken legs and a plate of sausages. I dunno about you guys, but if you're going to bill yourself as the house of Barbecue, you'd damned well better have some barbecue laying around the joint. You'd also better have more than three kinds of BBQ sauce... and it shouldn't come out of a 5-gallon pump container you bought at Wal-Mart, either.
Hell, they only had half the stands in the "House of (Very Little) Barbecue" open for serving people, and who do you suppose they were staffed by? One. Person. Each. That's right, one slightly confused elderly gentleman was left to do the work of taking orders, filling plates with a "variety" of meats and sides, taking cash, making change, and moving on to the next customer.
So naturally even though there was only a small line, it took us a good half-hour to get within earshot of the guy working the booth. When we heard him telling customers that they were out of everything tasty, I assure you there were some flavorful words spoken on my part. What a waste. We decided to bail on the HoVLB, and seek our fortunes elsewhere.

Thinking old man slowpants was an abberation, we went up the way a bit to another food stand and got sandwiches. Luckily for use, there was no line when we rolled up. However, when the Lunch Lady at the sandwich stand had given us our food and taken our money, I glanced back and saw a line 6 people deep. No idea how long Lunch Lady took to do her job... I didn't think to check.

Maybe my trip was just a one-off, and they had special people imported for the "HoVLB" deal. Diva or Hillmomba might be able to provide some objective measurement if they've been to SDC this season... but they'll probably just tell me I should have known better than to eat in a Dolly-free restaurant.

Anyway, all that is just window dressing. What made the trip worthwhile was the drive home, because I saw the coolest sign ever. I do so wish I had a picture to share with you guys, but I had the camera safely stowed away as we drove past the offices of Dr. Stiff, Gynecologist.

I shit you not.

The best part is that I tried to Google the good doctor tonight and point you all to his website to back up my claims. Unfortunately, Doc Stiffy's web presence is miniscule, but I did learn his first name:

Richard.

Road trips fucking rule!