American Fez

Nature's Bounty

"It really sucks that I've got to buy two seats," Fat John said as we waited to board our flight to Obesiana.
"I agree." I told him. "But unfortunately that's all they have available. You'd be much more comfortable in a row of three."
Poor old Fat John. If only he'd followed my recipe for healthy living by eating less he wouldn't have to pay more to sit at the back of the plane.
"At this time we'd like to begin boarding all those passengers who require special assistance because they need to be squeezed into the fuselage," the attendant announced.
"That's me." Fat John said. "I'll see you in there."
Luckily for Fat John, airlines don't serve free snacks during the journey these days, so Fat John would not be tempted by any high-flying calories or supersonic carbohydrates. Instead, I'd invited him to partake of my packed lunch: a nourishing meal made from Mother Nature's most mouthwatering fruits and vegetables. And it's a recipe I'd like to share with you today.

Paella de Gaia

One sniff of cheesed fut de carbon
Two teaspoons of wobbled lesbianberry
A stretch of well-addled algore
One gallon premium brand colon cleanser
A grimoire of crushed heart of nazi to taste

Later, when luxuriating in the comfort of my first-class seat, shortly after Fat John had been sick and both stewardesses reduced to tears, I reflected on man's pathetic inability to swallow a dose of what's bloody good for him.

Northern Weather

A Brief Pome about the Rains

Waterlogged bums taking shelter
Inside a street-side automated teller
Ponder mugging Mary Poppins
For her unbelievable umbrella

He's Spartacus! He's Spartacus!

Collective responsibility and I are uneasy bedfellows, especially since I am liable to hide under the covers when the cock crows and culprits are being sought. I have no desire to indulge myself in orgies of guilt and contrition for crimes in which I was merely a tiny satellite tentatively orbiting a pulsing planet of infraction. Instead, I believe in pointing the finger at the ringleader, the mastermind; and I don't believe in just pointing the finger, either, oh no, I believe in prodding the finger at them, preferably into the middle of their delinquent forehead. Furthermore, I don't believe it should be simply a regular bare finger that is prodded, but a huge and colorful foam hand featuring an extended finger, similar to the ones employed by fans at sports events, with "guilty person" written on it. Then we can let the world know exactly who the miscreant was who decided to swap Mellow Colombian for Deep French Roast beans in the office coffee machine.

Why I Should Stick to Doodling

As there was no "business" to discuss at our morning meeting, some overbearing busybody with nothing better to do brought up the tedious topic of office etiquette. "I wish the guys among us would remember to put the seat down in the bathroom," she bleated.
A reasonable enough request, no doubt, in normal circumstances, and normally I would have left the matter there, but the speaker was a grotesque and miserable cow whom I detest, so I didn't.
"That seems a pretty old-fashioned and sexist code of conduct to me." I said. "Since we are all equal in the work place these days maybe we should make an effort to be equal in the toilet also."
I could almost hear the eyes-rolling in my colleagues' heads, but bravely forged ahead with my argument anyway.
"Of course, I'm not suggesting that ladies should leave the seat up every other day on some kind of rota system," I explained. "But if both men and women left the seat at a forty-five degree diagonal twixt bowl and the cistern, well, perhaps then we can achieve some sort of bathroomological gender parity on this issue."
Unfortunately everybody ignored me.
"I was thinking it would be a simple matter of tightening the toilet seat hinges themselves, so that the seat can remain immovably elevated at the correct angle when the toilet isn't in use." I added to a quickly emptying conference room.

My Doctor and I

My doctor and I are experiencing fundamental disagreements regarding the nature of our relationship. For instance, he prefers to employ newfangled medical terms such as cancer, AIDS and influenza, whereas I only use traditional expressions like ague, plague and "cursed by the Gods for I hath violated the Temple covenant." Unfortunately I tend to suffer this last complaint rather a lot, and so our consultations are fraught with frequent mis-communications and diagnostical stalemates that hinder my treatment, thus:
"And what exactly are the symptoms of this so-called curse, Mr Fez?"
"Well, 'tis as if all the horned toads from Jacob's fiery pond had palsied widdershins upon the cleft palate of the triple-uddered gryphon of Bastardy."
"I see. So your knee is still bothering you, then?"
"Nay. The Devil's mark be imprinted upon my poor soul in a most wretched and obscene manner."
"You have a headache, perhaps?"
"Begone foolish, stethoscoped knave. That which ails me cannot be cure with thy simple pills and nutritional recommendations. Mine is a special case and requireth the application of mystic balms and the unearthly incantations of ancient wizards."
"So why have you been sitting in our waiting room for the last three hours then?"
"Because the Wise Woman is too expensive and my insurance doesn't cover it."

No More Perc Perks

I have finally decided to expel the psychoactive stimulant caffeine from my daily diet. The expensive, stainless-steel espresso machine in my kitchen now stands idle where once it steamed and gurgled a cheery greeting: four-hundred dollars poured down the drain along with the last dregs of my last cup of morning coffee. I suppose I could always drink the decaffeinated version, but that is rather like reading L'Etranger without any Albert Camus in it. Fortunately I quit reading L'Etranger many years ago, about the same time I switched from French Roast to Lavazza and from short pants to long, and so I don't have to worry about existential literature withdrawal anymore. But my current coffee abstention, now that's another matter altogether. I imagine lethargically pursuing my personal and professional business across a foggy no-man's-land of mental sludge, and then collapsing to the floor from the effort of producing jaw-cracking yawns like some cartoon sloth suddenly bereft of animation. In fact, I can barely sustain the key-tapping energy required to finish typing this blog post, but there is one more vital piece of information I must impart to you: when using most espresso machines, it is important that ... er, don't use ....er ..... digestion, black stuff ... some kind of bean, I forget ... ugggh.

Extracts from a Boring Novella

After a light salad, Edna and I returned to the parsonage. She looked very respectable in her brown dress, and I felt like the ideal platonic companion in my sensible shoes. The road was very even and we walked at a steady pace. "I'm thinking of becoming a nun," Edna mumbled. "Because I am so plain and homely looking."

The family has gathered in father's study to play our regular Saturday night game of Monopoly. My counter is the small dog; Edna's is the old boot. Nobody has bought anything yet because we all prefer to save our funny colored dollars. Edna receives a "Go To Jail" card, but mother tells her that she doesn't have to penalized because she's really such a sweet and gentle person, and deserves to continue around the board and pass Go and collect whatever monetary rewards accrue from accomplishing that feat.

Edna darns socks all morning while I practice the popular art of spoon-bending without success. "I am told that the technique you employ only works with good silver," Edna informs me. "But we don't have any because we are but simple, unassuming folk."

Our barometer is broken and as a result I caught a slight chill after making a brief excursion to observe the laborers who are digging a hole at the end of the street. Edna concocts a non-alcoholic Hot Toddy to sooth my sniffles and I retire to bed. Despite feeling so wheezy I reflect that I do not have it so bad, comparing my relatively comfortable lot with those poor souls who suffered from chronic diarrhea in the days before indoor plumbing, especially in wintertime.

Edna confesses to me that she has been engaged in a lesbian affair for the past twelve years with old Mrs. Sappho from next door. But I have no interest in so-called "woman-on-woman action" and so I let the matter drop.

Curse of the Camp Counselor

My first few days at Archeology Summer Camp have been a huge disappointment, culminating with last night's disagreeable situation in which I was forced to refuse the filthy spade offered to me by the course instructor. I told him, quite bluntly, that I was under the impression that real archaeologists hired native laborers to do all the strenuous digging, and that I would spend my working day in a comfortably furnished tent, interpreting five-thousand year-old hieroglyphics, piecing together fragments of shattered antiquities, and mocking the fez-wearing local mystic who claims that it is a grave mistake to excavate in that sacred area.
Evenings on the site are also extremely tedious. Despite wandering around by myself I have yet to be attacked by the mummified remains of some re-animated Egyptian Pharaoh, and since the course instructor apparently doesn't have a daughter, nor have I been able to acquire a love-interest whom I can rescue from being sacrificed on a crumbling altar by evil priests. I'm seriously beginning to doubt that I will even be clubbed on the back of the head during our field trip to the museum.
I don't know. Perhaps I should just leave and ask for my money back?