Those enlightened readers who saw the movie Saving Pvt. Ryan remember, I'm sure, the phrase "FUBAR." If you haven't experienced it yet or are waiting for it to come out on video, because you're too cheap to shell out $7.50 and would risk missing the movie of the century, I will not ruin it for you, but you will, no doubt, still identify with the above "borrowed" version, which would apply quite nicely to our recent trip to New Jersey. It may sound familiar to you.

The wife and I and some friends were looking for a nice Bed and Breakfast to spend an "end of summer" holiday weekend. So we opted for a little place right on the beach. Came well recommended. Their web site sounded great: "The only thing you hear at night is the ocean;" or, "A full breakfast is served every day." Well, sounded good so we dialed 'em right up to reserve Friday and Saturday nights. Gunter answered. He obviously had no sense of humor. "Can't do that," we were told. "Three day minimum. Our 'end of summer' rates apply - $200 a night plus tax."

"What! What a rip! Your web site says '$125.'"

"We require half your payment up front and the rest when you arrive."

"Really? Never heard of that. How about one day's fare as a deposit?"

"Nope. Half now. And we don't accept credit cards."

"How convenient. Would my personal check do, or do you need it co-signed by the Pope?"

Gunter was not amused. "Personal check," he snarled.

When the appointed day arrived, we piled into the Explorer XLT, crawled through the driving rainstorm and wall-to-wall traffic all the way up there, managing to limp in by 800 at night. We were greated by a dark parking lot and some snarling dogs.

Our host, of course, was nowhere to be seen, and neither were any of the other guests, when we trudged through the door, half soaked. But we were greated by "Taz," a vicious Rotweiller, seemingly foaming at the mouth and doing a lot of aggressive posturing and growling. John threw him a Three Musketeers® bar and he went off happy, at least for the moment.

We found an envelope with a key and a letter. "Room #7. Top of stairs. Left. Breakfast at 730. Enjoy your evening. Gunter and Greta Muller." So we hauled our bags upsatirs, found our room, anxious to unload the bags and head out to dinner. We turned the key and groped for the light switch, revealing a space the size of my linen closet, with a couple of tacky seaside pictures ("artsy") on the wall, a wicker chair and a "brass" bed, which squeaked just at the thought of a couple of hundred pounds on it. TV? Radio? Telephone? Forget about it. It did have a bathroom with a shower, although no hot water ever came out of it, and a closet with a few wire hangers, most of which had been bent. We went to bed, way too depressed to try to find a place to eat. The only thing I heard that night were Taz and his buddies howling.

The next morning we met in the lobby at the appointed hour, famished now, images of the promised gourmet breakfast dancing in our heads. "Taz" was no where to be seen. Perhaps he had doggy food poisoning from the candy bar. Maybe he was dead. Gunter and Frau Muller were busy hurrying in and out of the dining room, setting the table, dour and expressionless. I saw a small pitcher of juice at each of the four tables. I began to salivate instinctively.

Some of the other guests were gathering. They looked like pretty typical B & B fare. The honeymooners, with a terminal case of the touchy-feelies; the retired salesman, replete with paunch and cigar; the snobby yuppies from the big city, keeping their distance, and a few others. At last the Frau motioned us into the dining room. We started with coffee and juice. I awaited the obligatory muffins and croissants. None. Toast maybe? Nope. Shortly we were presented with a small plate of fruit, which I finished in two forkfulls. I figured the choice of cereals, followed by the eggs and bacon would follow. Nothing. Finally some cheese thing, about 10,000 calories per bite, appeared. And that was our "full breakfast."

"Where is the rest of the breakfast," I asked Gunter. He turned and looked menacingly back at me. I was sure I saw "Taz" out of the corner of my eye.

"Different breakfast tomorrow. You see."

"Should I stop at IHOP first?"

Gunter snarled. I think he was beginning to form a real hatred for me.

"Could I at least have refills on my coffee?"

"No refills. One cup per day. Extras will be $1.25."

"You've got to be kid..."

'This is not a restaurant."

"Bite me!"

"What mean 'bite me?'"

"The dog. I was talking about the dog. I think he bit me."