After riding the tidal wave of buzz surrounding their wee establishment, the owners of downtown restaurant Freeman's might have to face up to some bitter realities. Like, say, while Freeman's may be "hot," the wait for a table (at which you might enjoy such delicacies as macaroni and cheese) is fucking absurd. And then there's the eurotrash factor:

There is no quicker way to remember the upside of one's current rural, red-state, country-mouse existence than to be smeared cheek by visible asscheek by jowl against a cuntish, braying British hairdresser, wearing a poncho, mind, and sporting perhaps the worst coiffure in captivity, all while waiting for a table in a restaurant too small to create veal in. The pelts of the various mouldering taxidermic specimens affixed to the walls looked downright bouncing and behaving by comparison to this lovely's locks. Of course, that sort of harridan always travels in a pack of likeminded gym-armed females, the type who mistake originality for ordering a variant of the Martini the bartender doesn't know so they can announce portentously to no one, "That's not a good sign."

Days Of Being Wild [Cinetrix]