Mr. White’s always shouting “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” about stuff, but one day a bald dude wearing a bloody toga and laurel wreath appeared in his office.
He said something in what I figured was Latin, and even though I took a year of it in High School, I was totally hopeless with it.
“CALL A FUCKING PRIEST!” shouted Mr. White, cowering behind his desk. “WE NEED AN EXORCISM!”
Caesar held up a pizza box with a cartoony version of himself
He frowned, said “You think I look like this?” and then vanished.
Mr. White switched our company account to Domino’s.
Tag: food
Acquired Distaste
When I was young, I loved cottage cheese.
I’d put onion flakes and dill on it for flavor, but I didn’t mind it straight from the container.
It also didn’t matter if it was small curd or large curd. I liked them both.
Over time, I ate less and less of it, until I found myself forgetting the last time I’d had it.
So, I picked up a small container of the small curd stuff.
It was disgusting.
I tried different brands, but those also tasted lumpy and gross.
Onion flakes. Dill. A bed of lettuce.
Nope. Still tastes awful.
Taco-Faced God
God talks to me.
Me!
People think you’re crazy if you say God’s talking to you.
And I agree with them, because, like, why me? What’s so special about me?
God says I’m special. When He talks to me.
Thing is, he doesn’t appear with the big white beard. Or like George Burns.
He talks to me through tacos.
Sure, you see lettuce, beef, cheese, and hot sauce. But I see God talking to me.
Maybe it’s just the Taco Bueno kitchen guy hitting on me.
If it is, well, it’s so not happening.
(I asked for NO jalapenos, kid!)
The Can
Preacher say you can’t put God in a bottle or a box.
Or packed inside a wrapper.
Bright colors, big letters.
That’s not where you’ll find God.
You have to put Him in a can.
Not a cheap Aluminum can.
Or a rusty tin can.
You have to put Him in a steel can.
A solid American steel can.
Bigger than a soup can.
But smaller than a barrel. Or a keg.
Like that tomato soup can for prisons and schools.
Or the one restaurants get olives in.
About that big.
Gimme that can opener.
Let’s get us some God.
Butter and Ice
Luigi made magnificent sculptures in butter.
Alfonse specialized in sculptures in ice.
For the longest time, they’d work together on projects.
Amazing wondrous collaborations, ice sculptures locked in embrace with butter sculptures.
But Luigi was tired of Alfonse’s sculptures melting and dissolving his work.
They became bitter rivals, undercutting each other constantly.
Alfonse came after Luigi with a knife made of ice.
Mortally wounded, Luigi dropped a block of butter on Alfonse.
The hotel manager found them both in the kitchen, dead.
And that’s where I come in.
I work with Spam.
(Or would you rather have more flower arrangements?)
Soup
I never make my grandmother’s soup recipe for anyone anymore.
I used to make it all the time.
And every time I made it, people said they love it.
Really loved it.
But they carry their love too far.
When asked “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” they often say “YES, I WILL!”
Every time, it’s the same thing:
Whirlwind romance, big wedding, crazy honeymoon, and then a nasty bitter divorce.
If there’s any bright side to all this, it’s that I’ve ended up with all the soup spoons, bowls, and stockpots I’ll ever need.
Franchise Orgy
Okay, so Ronald McDonald opened up his house to families with children receiving critical medical treatment, but have you ever heard about the wild parties at his apartment in the city?
Yeah, I got photos and videos.
Ronald and the Burger King double-teaming Wendy.
The Colonel giving head to Carl, and the Taco Bell dog humping everybody’s leg.
And Jack… well, you can guess what Jack was doing.
They’ve offered me free food for the tapes and the memory cards, but, there’s no way I’d do that.
Not after what I saw them do with those burgers at the party.
Draining
The warning label on that bottle of drain cleaner tells you not to drink it.
And they’re right.
You’re supposed to sip it. Savor it.
Oh, and let the bottle breathe, like a fine wine.
Some people season their drain cleaner with flavors like peppermint or lemon, but a true aficionado will take it straight.
Oh, that skull and crossbones on the label?
That’s just letting you know there’s lots of calcium in there. You know, for healthy bones.
It’s just that the government doesn’t put nutritional labels on drain cleaner.
Do I want some?
No. I only drink diet.
Fast As Molasses
It used to be that people would say “slow as molasses.”
But not any more.
Just like all those rare plants in the Amazonian jungle yielding cancer-curing wonderdrugs, there’s a compound in molasses that, when properly refined and then hit with a particle accelerator, can be used to fuel a faster-than-light spacecraft.
That’s right. You heard me correctly.
Warp speed. Hyperspace.
And even with all that particle-accelerator science mumbo-jumbo, it’s still cheaper and more stable than what dilithium crystals would cost.
If they existed.
Just make sure you keep the molasses bottles well-marked.
Pancakes make such a mess in hyperspace.
Puzzle
I woke up with the worst hangover in my life.
I popped two aspirin, made coffee, and sat down at my kitchen table.
There was a box there.
I opened it and dumped out a bunch of weirdly-shaped little bits.
A jigsaw puzzle?
Oh well. I’ve got time.
So, I tried my hardest, but damn, none of the pieces fit together.
After two hours, I used up all the pieces, but it looked nothing like the picture on the box.
That’s when I realized it was a Corn Flakes box, and I’d just tried to solve my breakfast cereal.