I’ll be away from my blog for a couple of days as I do the Christmas thing. Merry Christmas everybody!
Via Flights of Fancy comes a retarded tool from the Butterball Turkey people to create your own special holiday menu. You plug in a bunch of animal and vegetable names, liquids, colors, etc., and out comes a make-believe menu for a make-believe fancy restaurant.
Here’s the menu that came out of my delicious inputs:
Appetizer: tepid corpse of beast, served with a turquoise sauce.
Salad: Farm-fresh thistles with home-made lug dressing.
Entrée: Filet of lizard, served on a bed of wild brown weed.
Dessert: A selection of poison ivy, hand-picked from the shores of sunny Bugtussle.
Beverage: Your choice of hot or cold bile, followed by a gallon of fish piss.
I checked the year I was born, and it appears to have been a lovely one. I can’t help but project myself into the vintage description by changing references to the wine into references to me:
Fully mature and ready to drink. Well cellared he will last for decades.
Blork went through a tough patch in the early 1980’s, when he appeared to be a little ‘edgy’. Now he has settled into the most glorious person of the very highest quality. After more than 40 years bottle-ageing, he has a superb combination of lovely mature fruit combined with the elegance that only this length of time in bottle can give.
I’ll drink to that!
For the holidays I go to some non-descript town in central France, possibly a suburb of Lyon. I’m hanging out and staying in a small stucco house that has only three or four rooms. My mother is there, which is odd as she died more than 20 years ago. I stay out all night at some kind of lame event, hoping in vain for something interesting to happen. I get home in the morning and lay down on a cot in front of the small house, in a courtyard shared by several other similar houses, and go to sleep.
My mother comes out and starts giving me grief for not calling to say I’d be out all night. I try to explain that I didn’t think of it because it’s been years since I’ve had to explain my whereabouts to anyone. She doesn’t buy it. Pissed off, I go for a walk.
I decide to call my boss, who is passing the holidays in Düsseldorf. I’m walking the sidewalks of this squat little colorless town, talking to her on a cell phone that has one of those annoying hands-free things. You know, the ones that make you look like you’re talking to yourself. I’m explaining to my boss how I’m having a hard time getting used to having my mother around, and after a few minutes I see that my boss, instead of being in Düsseldorf, is actually walking along the sidewalk a few feet ahead of me. She’s talking on her phone, unaware that I’m right behind her.
I catch up and she looks at me bug-eyed, like she’s just been caught red-handed. I say “busted!” and she’s embarrassed. We sit on the trunk of a parked car while she begins to explain why instead of being in Düsseldorf, she’s in the same small nowhere town as me. First, however, we take a moment to admire the car that’s parked behind the one we’re sitting on. It’s a polished and gleeming forest green Rolls Royce, an older and very elegant model. The chauffeur is squatting on his haunches next to the door, done up in a regal-looking green and gold uniform with a pillbox hat–somewhere between Admiral Nelson and the bellhop at the Ritz. He doesn’t seem to mind that we’re using the front bumper of the Rolls as a foot rest.
My boss begins to explain why she’s secretly in this town, pretending to be elsewhere. Indeed, it has something to do with me, but unfortunately I wake up just then, so I never find out exactly what.