visiting on a mission to evaluate our performance on behalf of the main branch.Today marks the 42nd wing night we have attended and also the 42 day we've had something to look forward to during the course of our bleak, meager lives.
This just in: dinosaurs walk among us, as many of you may have realized. with the recent engineering of dinosaur/avian regresso-hybrids, the reality of dinosaurs living amongst us is a stunning reality that we must face. a world of giant chicken eggs awaits us. this also promises to ensure the future of "giant wing night", a dream of all wing night patrons. And you can read about it in a book... Somewhere.
Today we arrived on site early, the entire saloon was empty besides us, the usual chess pieces, and regrettably, Bishop Jughead. if it weren't for Bishop Jughead, the night would have been nearly perfect. shortly after our complaints, however, like a miracle Jughead was no more, leaving us with nearly a perfect start. Our preliminary strike force included you're two famed secret agents, Braino (The Girl With The Visible Brain), Ducas LeReese, and Ashburn Sandstorm whose watchful eye watched,
always watching with that watchful, watchful eye of his. Visits from our district managers can either bring joyful songs of revelment or drastic budget cuts and would likely end us up at "celery night" with secret agent Lame Face and Jeremy the idiot from accounting who just likes going there.Secret Agent Manpow-er was at ill ease for earlier that day he was force fed burgers for information. Needless to say they ran out of burgers, received no information, and are all now dead. with gripping determination he ordered the regular twenty wings, as did I along with a Seria Nevada. To my surprise Secret Agent Sandstorm ordered "The same thing he's having", which to my relief was in reference to a guy across the way, but to my horror that guy had ordered exactly the same thing as me. I was under the knife. Every move I made must be in perfect tandem with my DM. This is where my expertise on wings and the night they have so encapsulated would be put to the test.
Service was swift and nimble, sir knight JP offered to redeem his mistakes with a free drink which did not go unnoticed. and other chess pieces were quick to offer napkins to clean up the mess that i had made, (more on that later) though they did not offer me a replacement for the sole victim of my transgressions, a single lost beverage.
I drank a Sierra Nevada pale ale, continuing my adventure into the world of pale ales that i've been performing lately. I am told by offshore secret agent Johnny Utah that according to reliable intel, Sierra Nevada pale ale is the golden standard for pale ales. overall, it was very basic, with a oo e to it as well. it is a good beer for someone who wants to show a friend what a pale ale is supposed to be like, but without any gimmicks. A solid beer with a rough edge to it, hearty flavor and easily consumed. I give the Sierra Nevada pale ale a medium sized circle with no dot.
I was not able to adequately review this beer beyond taste and texture however as a result of a terrible unforeseen incident involving our dear and beloved secret weapon, sweet baby ray formula no. 9. My fingers were nearly soaked to the bone with the volatile, but delicious new concoction, and as a result, after grabbing with full force towards my glass of cool misty Sierra pale ale, the slickness of my skin pushed the glass beyond my grasp; spilling the sweet sweet sweet sweet nectar all over the table, my passport, and worst of all... Supervising secret agent Ashburn Sandstorm.
As you can see in the picture I came in at a hard angle and it is only cunning luck that I survived, although at the time I wished for death. If only the room could fill with poison gas oh happy it would have made me to escape the disappointment of Ashburn Sandstorm via poison gas. Although he showed no emotion and simply digested the spilled beer through his skin as if it were second nature. What a pro! The wings altogether went above and beyond the wacky level. Malformed wing ran amuck. Wings of a non-wacky nature were decent, but not as decently decent as the wackwings. moist and smlump, they were the smlumpiest wings i have had the pleasure of eating in quite a while. too many times have i came to penguin expecting smlump and getting nlumb.
Bleu cheese was soupy, inconsistent and unreliable. though it was surprising that today, of all days i was gifted with the largest chunk of cheese of all time, weighing in at 20 pounds and 3 ounces, not less than 1 inch in diameter (it was truly really extremely dense cheese matter).
Currently Secret Agent Manp-ower is Catatonic and is bleeding from his eyeballs in the most pleasant way so I wish not to disturb him, but it is my assumption that the wings were once again too saucy. Although that it appeared that Ma-npower'saucevoir was larger than everyone else's. Perhaps it's an inside job against us. Maybe it's the doings of Bishop Jughead.
Things really started to heat up at Penguin as more of our esteemed guests arrive on the scene including Cheif of Police Wigglesworth, Nigel Pendelton, The Burrower, C.Q. Clover (who was late on account of solving a spooky mystery), Oxford the animal tamer and his half man half large cat ally "Leopardo", lastly was Hovergirl who always brings her "ha-ti-dah" attitude for poor Mr. Jumpjet, who is well mannered in all ways and can only put up with it by an amazing feet of self control, and on his birthday of all things. I'll say. I will say.
We decided that it may be best to tally forth before our friends got around to the birthday brawl they're so fond of (and by the sound of the sirens Inspector Jumpjet had a grand ol' 5023rd birthday). We were also eager to impress our superior with the fine work we've been doing with cakescapades. With the poison now fully drained from my body I was feeling in high spirits. I felt that luck was on my side and with a spring in my step I entered the cozy passageways of Stop & Shop. Now imagine if you will a heard of Elephants crossing the Savanna in search of a water hole. They come to the spot they've known for unheard ages.
A secret haven of water whispered down through the generations. Upon arrival however they find a dry desolate pit and they know their young will not survive to see the sunrise the following morning. That's the way I felt when I reached the day old bakery section. Hot dog buns, stale cookies, and a despair in my heart. That's what I found there. I quickly pulled off the fulled priced whoopie pie emergency maneuver that I learned way back when I was a cadet, but it only barely saved our cakescapades. We trekked up the face of happy hill and shared whoopie pies to whomever would do a handstand. It wasn't the best of wing nights, it wasn't the worst of wing nights. It fell well within that range of melancholy that shall be soon replaced by memories of happier times or sadder times depending on how this big ol' world smiles upon us. And for our standing with Ashburn Sandstorm? As I type this memo to you in the confines of The Holiday Ranch he stands in the corner rasping his knuckles against the wall and breathing heavily, which I know is considered an act of good will in some countries, not this one, but some. So tune in next week to see what becomes of our damned souls. And now onto Secret Agent Man-Po-wer for his take on the evening.
The Secret Agent Man Power Hour! With Secret Agent Man Power!
Man I'm full. I'm sleepy too. I wonder where I'll sleep tonight. Inspector Jumpjet can't be that old. I think he's like twenty something. Maybe I'm wrong. Whoa a quarter!
-Secret Agent Powerman.
atmosphere: 9
wings: A Thumb, not up nor down, just there.
service: 4/5
cooling tower bridge decomposition ball checkpoint reservoir tank: 9
beer: A medium sized circle with no dot (credit for being solid, demerit for being boring)
Cakescapades: ** and a +
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