Freakin' Frondescence

That was one fucked-up lunch today. This whole "eating healthy" nonsense has gotta go. I am lucky enough to have Jane occasionally make my lunch, and when she so chooses, she can be an excellent cook. Her sense of sensible ingredients for a healthy a dish is surpassed only by what I suppose to be underlying sadistic nature involving ritual beatings and mutilation of small animals. I jest. She loves small animals, and sometimes feeds them to me. But I'm starting to get the feeling that she's trying to tell me something. Granted, I may not be the svelte god I was only last year, but that's no reason to poison me. I mean, the only potential carb in that whole lunch bag was a super single bed of cous-cous. What the hell kind of food is cous-cous? You have to eat like a thousand to realize you've eaten any. She gave me a fork, and those little dust speck cous-cous bastards kept rolling right off between the tongs.

She told me last night that she picked some prepared lamb up from the market and was going to cook it for me and let me take it for lunch. I'm thinking, "Alright! Lamb Chop for lunch!" Yeah? Well, "have I got a story for you." Atop the bed of mushy pinheads was the motley contents of a lamb kabob - one lamb kabob; forty-thousand robust chunks of pepper and onion, each the size of Rhode Island, all gang-banging one defenseless little cube of lamb. To add insult to injury, the lamb had been repeatedly rolled in rosemary. I fucking hate rosemary. I mean, what kind of pine-needly bullshit is rosemary? If it's not getting stuck in my teeth, then it's lancing the back of my throat like a first year Guatemalan med student trying to perform a tonsilectomy with a knitting needle.

"Roughage," she says. Oh, it's rough alright. If I want that kind of roughage I'll finish the damned salad you packed for me.

I don't know what was up with that salad, but it was like trying to shove a juniper bush in my mouth. I stuck my fork in there and pulled out a rosebush or something. I didn't even have a knife to cut it with. She should have packed me a fork, a napkin, a machete and a weedwacker for that damned salad. Whatever happened to the days when a salad meant iceburg lettuce, carrots, an easily avoided tomato chunk, a buttload of croutons and parmesan cheese? Now I'm trying to choke down some kind of ground cover from the Black Forest. Next I'll be gnawing on roots and chasing it with a cup of dirt, "Minerals, don't you know." Can't I just have some fried chicken and a Flintstones chewable?

Fortunately, she hasn't found out about my affair. That's right, I'm getting some action on the side with a hot little number at work. It may be naughty, but she's got the best slot in the world. I know she puts out for others, but I'm pretty sure she saves Slot G for me. For only 55 cents I can get an ounce of Tato Skins anytime I like. Sometimes she likes to mix it up, get a little kinky, and she'll turn me onto some Cheese Nips instead.

It's good to inject a little variety into the routine.