I recently attended a dinner party at the home of Jack Sprat and his morbidly obese wife. It was a small affair. Just me, the Sprats, Little Jacker Horner from the corner, and that tedious Mother Hubbard woman who always brings her mangy dog along.
Predictably, there were only two entrees on the Sprat's limited menu: boiled fat or dry-rubbed lean. Neither option looked particularly appetizing, so I closed my eyes and imagined I was savoring a dainty dish of blackbirds baked in a pie instead.
I honestly don't know why I attend these awkward gatherings. There's the usual polite conversation about Mary Mary Quite Contrary's garden, but it's hard to think of anything else to say when every sentence you utter needs to rhyme. Consequently, the meal is mostly eaten in silence, except for the loud slurps of Mrs Spratt devouring fat and the ear-splitting scraping sounds of Jack chasing a sliver of lean around his plate with a fork.
Meanwhile, Old Mother Hubbard's dog spent all evening circumnavigating the table, from one guest to another, looking for scraps. Alas, there was nothing for the poor animal, since the Sprats famously lick their platters clean. Honestly, I don't understand why she doesn't just leave the beast at home, even if her cupboard is appallingly bare.
I'm off to Little Miss Muffet's tomorrow night. It will be just the curds and whey, as usual, but at least they're edible. In fact, I'd be looking forward to it if her stupid tuffet wasn't infested by spiders with no sense of personal space.
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