Tag: food

Too Many Cookies

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The only number of cookies I eat are too many cookies.
I get really sick from eating too many cookies.
I wish I could eat just the right number of cookies, but I don’t think that number exists.
I tried to keep track with graph paper and a clipboard, but it’s covered with cookie crumbs and pink pepto bismol stains.
Maybe there’s something on the label?
The package has a bunch of nutritional data with a suggested serving size: one cookie.
Ever have just one cookie? Only one cookie?
Hardly the right number of cookies. Hardly a number at all.

Corn Dogs

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There’s nothing quite like a fresh hand-dipped corn dog at the county fair.
These aren’t the pre-processed ones you get at the state fair or the grocery store.
You can watch as they pull a hot dog out of the kettle, spear it with a stick, dip it in the batter, and dangle it in the hot oil.
Look behind the curtain, and you’ll see the batter-maid milking a batter-cow into pails, hot dogs picked straight from a hot dog tree, and the oil pumped straight from the Great Vegetable Oil River.
As I said, as fresh as can be.

The Zoo

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I love going to the zoo.
You can get so much information about the animals on the signs while walking through nearly-natural habitats.
I see from here that the giraffe is from Africa, has a very long tongue, and is worth four Weight Watchers points.
“What wine goes with giraffe?” I ask the zookeeper.
He calls up the sommelier on his walkie-talkie. “A fruity red,” he says. “We have those in the gift shop.”
“Fine,” I say. “Open one now, put another on ice, and I’ll take the giraffe on the left.”
The zookeeper smiles, nods, and loads his rifle.

The Good Dishes

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We keep the good dishes in a cupboard, only taking them out for special occasions.
On the other hand, we keep the evil dishes in an iron-bound wooden chest in the basement.
They rattle and clatter angrily in their prison, demanding to be set free.
Not a chance. The last time we let them out, they gave the mayor and his wife food poisoning.
We’ve tried to destroy them, but every time we break a plate or a dish, the pieces reassemble themselves the next morning.
It’s best to keep them locked up, no matter how pretty they are.

The Candy Prince

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The Candy Price sits on his chocolate bunny, watching the troops walk past.
His lemondrop eyes glisten in admiration of his army.
“March, my men!” he cheers, and the army raises a shout.
A gumdrop button falls from his Marzipan coat. He has been outside for too long today.
He returns to his palace, inspecting his frosting hair in the mirror.
“I am coming apart!” he cries to his butler. “Help me!”
He tries to change suits, but feels something snap.
The chef-surgeon arrives, but shakes his head.
“So, how do you feel about being The Candy Princess?” he offers.

The Monkey Dance

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For ten years, Dinko Dogan and his monkey entertained the streets of Rousse.
At night, they swam in the Danube, Dinko singing and the monkey hunting fish.
“The fish are bad,” said the rivermaster. “The poison from the factories is in them.”
Dinko laughed. The monkey laughed with him. “Come for a swim, my friend!” he sang.
When the coughing and bleeding sores were too painful to ignore, Dinko ended his nightly swims.
The price of bananas was so high, but the fruitwagoneer said the monkey brought customers and gave them for free.
Dinko sang, and the monkey danced on.

The Champ

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It is the Fourth Of July.
Thousands of miles from the Coney Island Boardwalk, Hodo blindly crawls on the cracked earth, flies buzzing in and out of his nose.
There is no food.
There is no water.
There is nothing but dirt, flies, and death.
A pack of hyenas catches his scent, and Hodo doesn’t feel them as they tear into his flesh.
Back at Coney Island, the winner of the hot dog eating competition congratulations the runner-up.
They laugh, throw up on each other, and laugh again.
To Hodo, the pool on the ground would have been a banquet.

Alaska Wins!

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At first, I thought the flier said “Alaska Wins!” but it turned out to say “Alaska Wines!”
“Do grapes grow in Alaska?” I asked the Eskimo sitting in the booth
“Sure do!” he said. “It’s not just blizzards and Prudoe Bay oil, you know. When we don’t use hothouses, we’ve got nice wild berries on the nature trails and some really tough grapes up there.”
He handed me a glass and poured out some wine from a bottle that had a polar bear on the label.
I took one sip and spit it out.
Disgusting!
Alaska wins? No, Alaska Loses!

Cheese Bunnies

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Maybe down there in Florida or Texas you have your chocolate bunnies for Easter, but up here in Wisconsin, we have our cheese bunnies.
Yep. Cheese bunnies.
We didn’t get the idea for them from chocolate bunnies. You got that idea from us.
Long ago, some guy made cheddar Jesuses and called them “Cheesus.” Got lynched as a blasphemer.
His son thinks “I’ll make them into bunnies.”
Now, not everyone has as good cheese as us, but they make good chocolate.
So, they make chocolate bunnies.
I hear someone makes them out of ranch dressing.
That’s kinda stupid, isn’t it?

Faxcakes

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Every so often, we get someone who needs to send a fax.
I got careless with the office supplies and ran out of fax machine paper.
No, it doesn’t use the cut-sheet paper. It needs the old thermal rolls.
So I ended up loading the machine with pancakes.
That’s right. Rolled-up pancakes.
I didn’t expect to get a fax all day, and the office supply store was going to deliver another roll tomorrow, but I heard the phone ring and that telltale fax sound.
It printed, and I picked up the pancake.
They faxed a photo of butter and syrup.