I’m at a parlor. A type of catfish parlor, the kind with wooden fish and oars mounted on pine walls, with life preservers, water skis and neon Dos Equis and Shiner signs. It’s not, as one might suspect, a waterfront shack. It’s a pit off a high-traffic road, North FM 620. The FM stands for "farm to market" because back in the day, roads like this were designed to get you from the farm to the market. And now, en route, there’s this sign-decorated "Boat House" that along with "catfish toes" and "steak fingers" sells their own tee shirts. Some of the shirts have an image of a galvanized bucket–which I presume is filled with dead fish—stamped with the restaurant name. They sell hats and beer cozies. To the right of the counter, right beside the iced tea kegs, is a red and white sign that reads, “We Fried Your Mom… Please Clear Your Table. Thank You.” Ha. That’s awesome, I thought after placing my order. A good 98% of the menu is fried, so it makes sense that they fried my mamma along with a batch of their green tomatoes (which sound far better in principle than in reality). Then I reread the sign. Ohhhhh. We fired your mom. I liked it better when I thought it was fried.