Just finished skimming the Houston Chronicle’s article on pickles from the May 26th morning edition. I’m kind of making a sour pickle face, but there are no pickles around.
From writer Greg Morago’s description, you’d think pickles were to America what rice is to China. You’d think that we burn pickles in effigy on 4th of July. You’d think the founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence with pickle pens.
Morago offers, “As summertime entertaining swings into high gear, the pickle turns that audible crunch into a rumble heard throughout the country.”
I was no journalism major, but I equate this manufactured glee with someone on an elevator going all bonkers on you.
(you enter the elevator)
Bonko Guy: “HI. I’M GREG. IT’S HOT OUTSIDE!”
You: “Yep.” (you press ’14′ for the 14th floor)
Bonko Guy: ”So we got out our wading pool. It’s me, and Chris, and Abel, and Amy. So REFRESHING.”
You: “Uh-huh.” (you press ’9′ for the 9th floor)
Bonko Guy: “I LOVE AMERICAN IDOL.”
You: (smashing the ’4′ button over and over)
All I did was glance at the newspaper, and here comes pickle-crazed Looney Land, and it’s right here in the USA. “WHAT’S THE BIG DILL?” is the teaser at the top of the page. Really, guy? And your editor said OK?
Morago goes on to quote pickle packers as saying, “a good pickle has a crunch that’s audible at 10 paces,” which is about as believable as that miserable Kit Kat commercial with all the fake crunching going on. To get a Kit Kat (or a pickle) to make that sound, you’d have to either put a microphone inside someone’s mouth, or crack the person’s skull while he’s chewing (a compulsion that may overtake you if you actually watch the commercial).
That’s easy. It’s found in this 4 second movie clip:
Like most people, you probably aren’t aware of the health benefits of eating animal fat. That’s OK, though. I’m not here to tell you to eat like Spaulding from Caddyshack.
I am, however, ready to ask you the world’s 2nd most absurd question:
“Are you gonna use both of your kidneys, like, for the rest of your life?”
Ridiculous, right? So ridiculous it trumps any sarcastic attempt to humorize it. Just like this picture my friend sent me the other day, which included the caption, “I have nothing to add to this.”
Now that your mind is in ‘dirty’ mode, here’s the naked truth: it looks like within <insert your guesstimated amount of time> I am going to need a kidney transplant. Last Tuesday, I had the awkward, morbid conversation with my nephrologist about the situation. He said he thinks it’s time to “discuss with family and friends” the possibility of . . . eating your fat. NO, that’s absurd! Rather, the possibility of . . . what’s the best way to put this . . . OBTAINING a kidney from them? BILKING THEM OUT OF a kidney? RIPPING A MAJOR ORGAN from their innards? HALVING THEIR RENAL STATURE?
Over the past year, I’ve been sparring with two very good friends about “my” music snobbery problem.
By critiquing the music preferences of others, I have apparently raised their amicability eyebrows, and, well, thank goodness. Imagine the size of jackhole I’d be without them.
I value these friends. In fact, I would trust them with my kids, my money, and even my collection of rare beer cans, which includes a 7 oz. can of Schlitz, a can of Billy Beer, and a true antique: a 12 oz. can of Olde English 800. The 12 oz. obviously became extinct with the advent of rap, but that’s for another article.
Despite our mutual chummitude, these friends both deserve punches in the temple – not the fatal kind of punch – just one hard enough to stimulate a robust conversation, which is really the whole point here. Why a temple punch? Simply because they like some bad music . . . like Counting Crows, for example, whose vocalist squeals like a donkey. Surely you’ve heard that one song* where he squawks, “HYEI-HYEI-HYEI-HYEI!!!” over and over; not Mr. Jones but the other one the radio stations play, presumably because someone bribed them with billions of dollars since no one – other than my friend – could possibly enjoy such banal tootery. *I searched and searched on You Tube but after 3 songs I just couldn’t hack it anymore.
When I stumble upon this song, I go Turret’s instantly and taser my radio. Really. And if you’re wondering how I got my mitts on a taser, my police friend “Real” Vic Hung got me one cheap. I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone that he lifted it during the bust of a gay drug-lord ninja in the Heights. I guess that cat’s out of the bag now. (Vic, I’ll send you another Donut Coupon Book).
Now. In case you hadn’t heard, tasering your radio has been deemed “poor electronic stewardship” by the EICC. They also warn that it might even fry your car battery if you’re not careful. Amazingly, many cases of dead car batteries are a result of radio tasering. An official but highly classified government report documents this problem in fine detail. My “Pentagon Pal” tells me it even lists the music groups or artists that caused the majority of these rage-o-ramic reactions. To quote Dave Barry, you might think I am making this up but I’m not.
Something both hilarious and terrifying is going on.
Every moment of the day, I’m on guard. It’s as if I’ve stolen the mama eagle’s eggs, or taken the bees’ honey, or weed-whacked the passenger door on the neighbor’s Ferrarri. Because I’ve been naughty, I’m constantly looking around for a karmic paddling of some kind; a punishment for my wrongs, but none has come yet. I remain wary, because I know what I’ve done.
I missed the plate again. With Adriana at bat.
Adriana is a sweet little five year-old dynamo on my daughter’s softball team, the Blast. And she’s got skeellz! Adriana can run fast, field tricky gounders, and throw all the way across the infield. She follows coach’s orders with precision, and seems to enjoy herself immensely, even though she hardly ever smiles. Best of all, when she’s at the plate, Adriana crushes the ball with a <PING!!> using the $98.00 bat her daddy got her.
Enter Adriana’s daddy . . . the problem, the danger, and the source of hilarity.
a post mortem of our huge garage sale this past Saturday
Saturday, 6:56 a.m.
I wake up to breaking daylight. I rub my eyes and remember we slept in the garage. Even though we’d placed a quilt on top of the concrete, I ache as if I’d slept upon a rock garden. Why the garage? Oh yes, to make sure our stuff was safe. You see, we had so much junk ERRRRRRR quality used merchandise to sell at the next day’s garage sale, we had to put it out in the driveway a day early. By sleeping in the car park, we would hear any overnight intruders and then, um, maybe brandish our 9-irons at them. Or perhaps we would growl like bears. I don’t know. But we were there as a deterrent. Thank Neptune we didn’t have to prove our mettle, because, as a security team, my 13 & 6 year old boys and I have all the intimidation factor of Spongebob Squarepants, Patrick Star, and Squidward Tentacles.
6:58 a.m.
I get up. My body creaks like an ancient lawn chair – making me think I actually belong in a garage. The boys are still sleeping on the makeshift bed. I go into the house, retrieve the car keys, and back the cars out into the street.
sour pickle face, but there are no pickles around.
the top of the page. Really, guy? And your editor said OK?
