Heads might roll.

And some of those heads might eventually find themselves hanging on a wall in a restaurant.

Especially if one of those heads happens to belong to a doe.

Or a buck.

Or a moose.

Or whatever other animal carnivores love to hunt.

Do people hang bear heads?

Or do they just make creepy rugs out of the carcasses?

I really don’t know.

When I was a kid, I didn’t realize those tanks at the grocery store filled with banded-clawed lobsters weren’t just funky pet displays.

I never gave it much thought, one way or the other.

All I knew was that those sure didn’t look like something I’d want to purposely ingest.

But then the day came when I suddenly became hyper-aware of everything, and I literally couldn’t stomach anything that once had a face.

As the sole vegetarian in my family, this is not always a picnic.

Years ago, we made the mistake of going to Red Lobster.

Yeah, it’s a stretch,

But even most steakhouses have at least one thing I can eat.

Or, at the very least, they usually have a killer drink menu and can make some sort of badass mixed drink to make the visit worth my while.

But not Red Lobster.

I do have to give them some credit, though.

Having had not even a single vegetarian option listed on the menu, they graciously offered to create something for me.

That should’ve been my cue to turn and run.

But I didn’t, and they brought out the oddest monstrosity I’d ever seen:

Salad vegetables heaped, and I mean heaped, on top of a massive mountain of spaghetti.

Suddenly, those lobsters almost looked like a more appealing prospect.

Almost.

To this day, that was still one of the most disturbing things I’d ever witnessed.

Some people choose not to eat meat for health reasons.

But I can’t eat it because it truly bothers me.

It feels wrong.

I’m not even the world’s most animal-loving person.

I mean, I obviously care about animals and their well-being.

I’d just rather have an herb garden than a herd of cows.

Especially in my stomach.

Anyway…

Earlier this week, we ended up at a barbecue restaurant, for lack of other options, during an out-of-town venture.

Yes, a barbecue restaurant.

And this one had deer heads all over the walls.

There was easily a full dozen of those things hanging throughout the restaurant.

The place smelled all smokey, which is obviously to be expected in such a place. 

And the restrooms were labeled for bucks and does. 

Or rather, as the signs actually read, “buck’s” and “doe’s”.

That right there was yet another huge strike.

Restaurants demonstrating poor grammar usage on signage and/or menus make me want to turn right back around and run out the door.

But it was already too late.

We had already ordered.

As my older son so eagerly exclaimed:

“Wow! This place is your worst nightmare! Bad grammar, meat, and heads everywhere!”

A good half an hour later, the “freshly made” coffee finally arrived.

And by “freshly made”, I can only assume the coffee beans must’ve just been harvested out in the parking lot by the dumpster for it to have taken so freaking long.

The milk for the coffee arrived, too.

In a cup.

Because who needs a pitcher?

Oh, that’s right.

I do. 

I spilled milk all over the table as I attempted to carefully pour it without making a mess. 

But at least I’d managed to find a couple of acceptable vegetarian options for lunch.

Namely a baked potato and garden salad.

A butterball blob topped with sour cream and shredded cheese arrived for the potato…

Along with radioactive neon green salad dressing that I was informed was avocado ranch.

Hopefully, that’s really what it was. 

In an attempt to avoid Milky Lake in the middle of the table, I soon found myself licking green dressing off my arm in my tightly crammed corner of the table.

In a place with deer heads lining the walls.

Upon leaving, we were greeted with the sight of a stunning rainbow that appeared to start all the way at ground-level and artfully faded into a fluffy cloud.

And then I stepped in dog poop.

Oh, well.

That’s the thanks I get for sparing the life of an animal by eating a salad.

Crazy is as crazy does.

Or doe(s).