After my wife’s death, I was cleaning the kitchen cabinets in my Chicago apartment, I came across a small container of bouillon cubes.
The label said they were 18 years old.
This means they’re old enough to get a driver’s license, even though they probably wouldn’t pass the driving or vision tests.
And, being eighteen, they could also serve in the military, but I don’t think the military is openly recruiting potentially toxic substances.
But they could register to vote, as long as they register as a Democrat.
Right after they register my dead wife to vote, too.
Ah, Chicago.
Tag: food
Breakfast Is Served!
The famous mad scientist Doctor Odd called a press conference.
He was always good for a soundbite or two, so all the major networks sent cameramen and reporters.
However, on the morning of the press conference, there was no sign of Odd.
They knocked on his lab’s door.
No response.
After hours of waiting, the scientist burst out of his lab and shouted “SUCCESS!”
In his hand was a plate, and on that plate was a stack of waffles.
Famished, the press greedily ate up the waffles.
Odd scowled at the empty plate.
“Well, there goes my Intelligent Waffle experiment.”
Deli
When I was little, I was impressed with the variety of meats and cheeses behind the glass at the deli counter in the grocery store.
My mother would make her selections and the attendant would heave up huge chubs to the slicer, where they’d slide across the whirling blade, leaving a stack of whatever to be weighed and wrapped.
Now, pretty much everything is pre-sliced and packaged for sale, but now and then I insist on going to the counter in the hopes they’ll accidentally hack their hand off.
Because nobody ever posts videos of that happening at the factory.
Bacon To Space
I read somewhere that if took all the bacon that Americans eat and laid it end-to-end, it would stretch to the moon and back seven times.
Which kinda pissed me off, because with the space program in such shambles, we could just climb that stack of bacon to the moon.
Instead, we eat it.
Oh, sure, it’s delicious, but if given the choice, I think people would give up their bacon so we could get to the moon.
Or, at least, give up some of it.
A seventh. Or two sevenths, so we’ve got a stack to climb down with.
What’s the deal with the Cookie Monster?
Sometimes, I wonder about the Cookie Monster.
Why does he talk that way?
And why is he obsessed with cookies?
I did a little research, and found out that he was a foreign exchange student, but the file didn’t say where he was from.
Only that he’d never left.
He keeps saying C is for Cookie, but his permanent record says he got caught sleeping with the home economics teacher in an attempt to get that upped to an A minus.
As for his English grades, there’s no amount of fur that blue furball could shag to keep from flunking.
The Spice Of Lifeless
I used to like spicy and hot foods.
Adding a bit of Tabasco to the ranch dressing dip for carrots and celery kicked things up
The problem is, spicy foods don’t like me anymore.
It doesn’t take much for me to blast out half of my intestinal tract in a disgusting, bloody, and smelly mess.
So, I started a food diary, and measured my reactions to various things.
Tabasco…gone.
Picante… gone.
Vietnamese pepper sauce… gone.
The refrigerator got emptier and emptier.
Pretty soon, it was just romaine lettuce, yogurt and cottage cheese.
I think I’ll go drink drain cleaner now.
Thanksgiving Meat
Nobody in our family likes turkey, so for Thanksgiving we’ll roast different animals.
One year, we had giraffe. Plenty of neck meat to go around.
Then there was elephant, but it didn’t fit in the oven. Had to roast it on a spit and rig up a generator and motor to rotate it over the fire.
We had plenty of rattlesnake to go around. And everybody got a belt for Christmas, too.
Nobody wanted the jellyfish or slugs. Those years, we ran out of sweet potatoes and stuffing early.
This year, we’ll get a jump on shopping and do kangaroo.
Brain
If I suffer some horrific tragic accident that reduces me to becoming just a brain in a jar, I want that jar to be a cookie jar.
Because, let’s face it: the kids these days are fat.
And there’s nothing that puts a kid off of between-meal snacks like reaching for a Chips Ahoy and coming up with a handful of grey matter.
But then again, kids don’t wash their hands, either. Disgusting, nasty creatures!
Pawing around my lobes, their booger-covered fingers scrambling my neurons… ewwwwww!
They’d reduce me to a drooling, blithering idiot.
(Unlike how I am now, right?)
Kolaches For Cats
While heading to work, I stop by the park and give treats to the feral cats who live in a maintenance shed under a bridge.
Other people give them food, too, but they really like the treats. They’ll stop eating from their plates and come out to grab treats.
I feel bad when I forget the treats, so I stop by the donut shop and pick up a kolache, tear out the rolled-up strip of turkey from it, and toss pieces to the cats.
They chase down the bits of meat and eat happily.
And then I head into work.
Fetch The Stick
The sign on the front door of Le Ho Kim says NO DOGS ALLOWED.
Under it: DELIVERIES IN BACK.
The band jokes about chow dogs being in the chow mein, puppies in the dumplings.
Benny’s been coming here since we were two years old, and he still can’t work chopsticks.
“Use a fork!” growls Damien. “I’m sick of watching you with those sticks.”
Benny’s the goddamned drummer, right? You’d think he could by now.
“Woof!” I say, holding up a dumpling, and everybody laughs.
“Fetch!” says Benny, tossing a chopstick.
I throw the dumpling after it, and everybody laughs harder.