Thursday, July 30, 2009
How is it possible to have a workload every bit as heavy as usual when the boss is laid up sick in bed? And why must I have that when it's been hot as hell and the humidity has been hovering at 100%? Why does everybody keep asking for rate increases when they know nobody has any money? Why can't the Obamas vacation at a Holiday Inn instead of a multi-million dollar estate? Where the hell is my stimulus? I am cranky. I admit it. And I double-dog dare anyone to say anything about it. I want junk food, and I want the kind laden with flavor and bountiful pizazz and billions of calories. And prudent bystanders will very kindly not comment on that, either. Not that I couldn't withstand the onslaught of a few calories. I weighed 112 this morning. Still, I usually -- usually being the buzz word here -- try to avoid the direct application of marauding calories and fat to my butt and thighs. Right now, I don't care if I balloon up to 6,000 pounds. And I know you darling people would be too polite to mention it. I want high-fat junk food, and I mean to have it before sundown. I'm on a quest for obscenely rich treats that taste rot-your-teeth-out good, and there will be nothing low-fat in my shopping cart.
You know, I've come to hate the word "delicious." When you see it used as an advertising adjective, you can bet it tastes anything but. Everything from diet soda to rotgut whiskey to cardboard breakfast bars to pork butt is billed as freaking delicious. Even people are calling themselves delicious these days, and not just the Hollywood pop tarts. Why can't Madison Avenue tell the truth? Sugar-free desserts aren't all that delicious; they leave a chemical after-taste. Light beer isn't delicious; tastes more like watered down shellac. Fat-free half-and-half tastes like butterfly puke. Teensy little fat-free candy bars the size of postage stamps are wanting in the deliciousness department, unless maybe you eat them ten at a time. And as for the people, would it kill the gossip rags to call a skank a skank? Apparently! Parislicious? Lindsaylicious? Diddylicious? Puh-leeze. Give me a breakalicious.
A bibliophile might find these Words Gone Wild blasfomylicious -- but I wouldn't hold my breath. If you want to define them, be my guest. Personally, I think you might be better off shunning them. They are a sorry lot. I'm considering sperding them fiolently into couffins for a little intertainment.