The only thing salty was the abrasive bartender and the lip of my Libby tumbler. Look, I'm sorry you didn't get cast in the Blossom reunion. Get over it. I guess they're famous for the blended margaritas which were at a decent happy hour price. But seriously. It was like frozen limeade with a shot of rubbing alcohol. Ewww. Not so great. And the taquitos? What? Squeeze me? Two taquitos, cut in half, made to look like four. Who's your chef? Vern Troyer? They were the size of my middle toe. I kid you not. I won't go on about the Scottsdale crowd that frequents the Salty. Really I won't. Block head dudes with Ed Hardy T shirts and Michael Kors tans. And the babes. The chicks. Boobies SO big, after a few of those rank ritas, I had this image of all of them exploding at the same time, with chards of silicon splattering everywhere. Knocking over the oh so clever "I used to be a Corona beer but now I'm a salt and pepper shaker" bottles. See. I told you I wouldn't go on and on!