 |
| the dish gobbler |
If I had a holster on my belt, for magical weapons only to be deployed in circumstances prescribed by scripture or after-dinner-fortune, it'd be full of words like soggy. Particularly when I'm eating poor-man's cocoa crispies (aka "cocoa dyno-bites") does such a defiler come in handy. My downfall commences even before I lift the spoon to my lips. Looking aghast into the dish cupboard, I motor into a crossroads of desperation, which my subconscious narrates like this: "oh no...no bowls."
At least, the right kind of bowls. There are no circular bowls, no bowls imbued with that deep breakfastbosom a cereal bowl needs to cradle the weeping babes of a.m. hunger. Into the dish-gobbler I peer and as I suspect, the inner door is flush with the grime of fresh infection - my beloveds in soiled captivity on the top shelf. And so I punt. And I shank it. I go for that other bowl, that, 4-sided, pi-doesn't-apply-to-me pasta dish imposing on my visions of chocolate cereal snacks and orange juice like Nascar on Sportscenter. I badly want for it to work. I release the deluge of sugar circles, dampen them with old white glory and I breakfast like making fun of the neighbor kid's Power Rangers sent me to bed with no chow. But respectability seeps quickly from this square faced pile of pewter and soon I'm numb-munching like my host's offered me guano bars. I'm the forsaken slab of cement centered squarely beneath the elephant anus; perceiving the true gravity of my predicament means the most displeasing of experiences: my dynobites no longer crunch and small gangs of cocoa are herding in the corners.
At least, the right kind of bowls. There are no circular bowls, no bowls imbued with that deep breakfastbosom a cereal bowl needs to cradle the weeping babes of a.m. hunger. Into the dish-gobbler I peer and as I suspect, the inner door is flush with the grime of fresh infection - my beloveds in soiled captivity on the top shelf. And so I punt. And I shank it. I go for that other bowl, that, 4-sided, pi-doesn't-apply-to-me pasta dish imposing on my visions of chocolate cereal snacks and orange juice like Nascar on Sportscenter. I badly want for it to work. I release the deluge of sugar circles, dampen them with old white glory and I breakfast like making fun of the neighbor kid's Power Rangers sent me to bed with no chow. But respectability seeps quickly from this square faced pile of pewter and soon I'm numb-munching like my host's offered me guano bars. I'm the forsaken slab of cement centered squarely beneath the elephant anus; perceiving the true gravity of my predicament means the most displeasing of experiences: my dynobites no longer crunch and small gangs of cocoa are herding in the corners.
Fury shakes me of my spoon and I cry out, tearing my shirt and shearing my beard. I'm left with no choice. Eyeing the off-white cesspool from which my anger oozes I reach for my holster and feel for the steely cool of just the right zinger. And oh its there. I ask the bowl to take a walk, keeping it always ahead of me and lathered in the niceties of small talk, but it knows. On goes the sink disposal. "Get behind me devil," I command, "you're...soggy."
No comments:
Post a Comment