Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Comatose narcoleptics and the banishing of Garglimish

Where this post is lie the shadows of four previous posts.

Little postabortions, if I may be so crass. Sorry nubs of ideas that didn’t take root or that were poisoned early on by a sick gush of malevolence, twisting them terribly until there was no way they could survive (without causing torsion leading to clotting and subsequent necrosis. Not pretty).


Bet you're wondering what they were about, huh? Neener neener neener! I'm not telling!

Let's just say that what follows is a LOT better than what you could have been reading...


I made tuna casserole last night from a recipe I found online. MISTAKE. Should have stuck with the tried-and-true method that revolves around the notion that very nearly everything tastes better when bathed in cheese sauce. I had my taster tuned for the old down-home ‘role recipe, and was disappointed. Oh, it wasn’t BAD, but cream of celery soup ain’t no kind of substitute for melted orange pseuo-cheese. Something to do with not having a heart-attack-inducing level of salt, is what I’m thinking. So there I sat, heart attack-less, and slightly disapppointed that this new way of doing things simply wasn’t cutting the mustard (if I might use a culinary metaphor here). It’s like wanting a Chik-Fil-A artery-clogger onna bun, and settling for something grilled, with lettuce on. Yes, it might be better for you, but if all that’s left of life is a series of choices made to help us live longer in grudging half-enjoyment while remaining fully cognizant of what COULD be, then what’s the POINT?

Next time, I’m breaking out the Velveeta and saying buy-bye to that healthy choice soup crap.


Last Sunday I spent some quality time at a local middle school track going ‘round and ‘round while Biff was playing Ultimate Frisbee. Round and ‘round gives one a fair bit of time for pondering. Pondering important life questions like “why does that fat woman in front of me think it’s a good idea to wear those shorts out in public? Her thighs are as bumpy as the surface of the moon, her butt is wobbling up and down so much I’m getting motion sickness, and her crotch is slooowly eating the inside hem. That upside-down vee hem is so NOT A GOOD LOOK. Of course, neither is the tee shirt that so tight we can all see each and every one of her 1..2..3..4 rolls of back fat. Is that her husband with her? Does he grab dem back fat rolls and slap ‘em against each other when he’s riding behind? Does he maybe….oh God no Tiff, don’t go there. No. Think of something else.”

And then the voices in my head started talking in a Swedish accent, because nothing banishes thoughts of mature citizens having back-fat sex than that.


And for that mental image you are welcome.

Tiff out.

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