You know that Dave’s Insanity Sauce, the really hot hot sauce?
For some reason, people buy stuff that hurts them. It’s a macho thing, I guess.
Well, my client Dr. Odd is suing them for false advertising.
He says that despite the fact that the sauce causes discomfort to the point of mental duress, it doesn’t actually drive the person consuming it to a state of mental illness.
On the other hand, he’s developed formulas that will cause any range of madnesses, temporary and permanent.
True insanity sauces.
And those Dave’s people are ruining his business with their snake oil.
Tag: food
Ripe
It used to be that apples were grown locally on small farms, and when the fall came, you’d go out and pick them into a basket, ripe right off the tree, the farmer weighing the deliciousness at the gate, a handshake, a smile. He knew your name, you knew his, hey, Farmer Jackson, how’s the wife? Kids doing alright?
Or you had your own tree, you watched it grow from blossoms to apples to falling leaves and winter’s frost and back again.
Now, in the store, apples shipped from around the world, the whole year long.
I taste one.
Gross.
Chocolate
Janey loves chocolate.
Just the mention of chocolate gets her all excited.
Her eyes open wide, and she smiles that smile, open slightly, waiting.
You could cover anything in chocolate and she’d want it.
Anything.
So, when the varsity football team heard about this, well, you knew there’d be trouble.
Boys will be boys, and when she saw the chocolate, she couldn’t resist.
Moments later, eleven panicked screaming jocks clutching their bleeding junk running for the nurse’s office.
Janey claimed innocence. “I didn’t mean to hurt them. I just got excited, that’s all. And I thought they were solid chocolate.”
Safe To Eat
I had to look twice to make sure I read it right.
Sure enough, the recipe called for Silly Putty.
“Is that shit safe?” I asked my wife. “I mean, can anything which picks up ink from the funnies be considered safe to eat?”
“Well, the package does say it’s non-toxic,” says my wife.
“So is a bucket of pinballs, but you don’t see me stir-frying them with snowpeas and carrots.”
“Mmmmmmm pinballs! We have ranch dressing, right?”
I closed the cookbook, put it back on the shelf, and headed out to the old-timey game arcade to shop for dinner.
Raise Em Right
It’s not easy growing good teachers.
Good soil.
Good weather.
Good gardeners.
Even with seeds genetically modified to handle various academic climates, few districts take the time or give the effort to try to raise the best crop.
Some say organic pesticide-free is the way to go. Hydroponics, too. Force-feeding nutrients in glass pots reduces root-shock.
Our district tries to stay as natural as we can, using leaf-cuttings from good teachers while limiting physical manipulation to grafting of buds and branches for diversity.
The bad teachers, we chop up for the kids’ lunches.
No wonder why they’re so damn stupid.
Off The Menu
I remember sitting around a table with a few of my friends who were also restaurant owners, cracking jokes about each other’s places.
“Vinnie’s place is so old, he just gave the monks he uses to copy the menus a five cent raise.”
“Benny’s so cheap, he won’t pay to buy new stone tablets to chisel new menus on… he makes them hammer in the changes on the back.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I hear Artie over there’s such a tightwad, he won’t pay to paint the cave he’s in.”
I just laughed, and wondered when my chef would discover fire.
Potluck
It’s the holidays, but when you’re “essential staff” where I work, you don’t get those off.
Instead, you’re required to burn a paid day off or come in, which sucks, even when you get double pittance (oops, I mean double pay) for doing so.
So, we have potluck lunches, and everybody’s supposed to bring in a dish.
Nobody signed up, though, so the night before, management announced that participation was now mandatory.
Whatever, grumbled the team.
The next day, the break room was stacked high with the twenty last-minute tubs of potato salad they’d bought.
Who wants to order pizza?
The Rutabaga Of All Evil
Growing up, I heard a lot of advertising pitches for foods.
Pork was the other white meat.
Beef was what was for dinner.
And it wasn’t any ordinary egg, but the incredible edible egg.
Sadly, the rutabaga growers collective didn’t have much of an advertising budget, so my grandfather made us run up and down the aisles of the grocery store shouting EAT SOME GOD DAMN RUTABAGAS!
What? Was he a rutabaga farmer?
No. And he didn’t work for the collective, either.
He was just a sick old man who hated kids.
And rutabagas, now that I think of it.
Milk Street
At the corner of Milk Street and Cookie Avenue, I’d like to build an old-fashioned shop selling cookies.
Kids could come there after school, buy cookies, and dip them in milk while doing homework.
Parents from the community could act as tutors or babysitters.
Instead, there’s a crackhouse.
Sure, there’s kids there, but they’re not doing their homework. They’re acting as lookouts for cops or rival gangs.
I pull up with my milk truck, get out, and walk up to the door.
I pick up the empty milk bottles, put down fresh, and knock.
At least they pay in cash.
Healthy Eating
I was sent to a mission on some remote Pacific Island to teach the natives about our Church, culture, and all sorts of modern things like nutrition.
Fruits and vegetables are good for you, nice and healthy, while too much meat and fat is bad for you.
“You are what you eat,” I say.
They hit me on the head, tied me up, and stuck me in a stewpot.
Nobody told me these savages were cannibals.
The hot water woke me up, and I shouted “Don’t eat me!”
The chief laughed. “We’re giving you a bath. Man, your cologne stinks.”