Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Eating, Falling Asleep, and Watching Jon Stewart

Son of a bitch! I just bought you! Why are you already moldy? You know they're all going to laugh at me. They'll start raiding my pantry and discover you resting in the corner topped with a twist, stuttering and spewing, and accuse me of bad housekeeping. My housekeeping is just fine, thankyouverymuch. Oh, you should talk. When have you ever had to deal with visitors? No, no, that time doesn't count. Leave my uncle out of it. He just had a bit too much "plum sauce," not enough "self-control," and two bags of "vitamins." Hey, this isn't about me. This is about you. You know this has nothing to do with me ... and that time you just "conveniently" forgot my promotion to assistant manager at 2For1 Hot Pants. You don't care about me at all! When have you ever cared? All I do is give, give, give and you just sit there, in your cozy plastic bag no less, taking me for granted. I can't do this anymore. I am the Ass. Man. And you, sir, have intimacy issues! Oh please, why else would you come packaged in a transparent sheath? I mean, I can see you, we all can, but you're not exactly all there. What do you mean I'm overreacting? Let me tell you something, Mr. Premium Grain. I used to put up with your "accidents" because -- and I'm not embarrassed to say this -- I was blindsided by love: your wholewheatiness was such a turn-on. But every time you do this -- every single time -- I have to tear off your crust to make you edible again (and believe you me, it is no picnic at the Olive Garden). But every time I do this -- every single time -- you go from a macho to mini, where sipping tea with the girls, crocheting dirty words like "fuck," "cunt," and "Danny Bonaduce" on handkerchiefs is more important than being big and delicious. I don't even know who you are anymore. Get your dirty seeds off me! ... I'm sorry, baby. No, it's not your fault. I just had a bad day at work. That skank -- yeah, the one with the braids -- was hassling me for dipping sauce again. I was like, "Okay, jermajesty, we don't sell dipping sauce here. Only high-quality, Paula Abdul-approved, 100% crack-riding hot pants." She was like, "Nuh uh, girl. That's not what yo' mama said. Let's wrassle."

So I killed her. With her own cornrows. Sometimes Chinese people can be so annoying.

*Moral of the story: Being a student means bread is still good even after being torn to half its original size due to ... environmental circumstances. Oh, and don't leave grilled cheese unattended: it will not turn out too great. (I ate it anyway. Both times. One after the other. Oh yeah ...)

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