There is something inherently wrong
with Tomato Juice. It begins heading south
with the color – too red when served straight, and moves into the orange-pink zone when you make a Bloody Mary. Worse than the color is the gooey texture and
thickness. It’s just not right. There is
a reason the drink was named Bloody Mary, and I’m sure it has something to do
with a horse and carriage accident. I
read that Mary went for a ride one Sunday afternoon hoping to see the handsome
Prince who liked to swim in the calming waters of a mountain lake. His guards spooked Mary’s horses as the
carriage neared the lake and they raced up the cliffside until they tumbled
over the edge, plummeting to the lakeshore below. Poor Mary splatted everywhere, and when the
Prince saw her mangled body he was so distraught he called to his manservant to
bring him a Vodka.
It’s
plain to see why the sight of Tomato Juice freaks me out, and I may have to
call my manservant for Vodka.
Another
freakish occurance are those green screens the meteorologists stand in front of
to do their weather forecasts. Aliens. It’s the only explanation. I’m sure it’s a plot by the government to
convince us there is a scientific explanation for why the weather map appears
on your TV, but in the studio is only a green screen. I’m not buying their story. It’s just another load of crap to cover the
truth. If I believe the green screen
theory, then I’d have to believe Congress really is in session more than one
day every four years, and that they actually accomplish something other than
spending my future social security.
Those self-checkout machines at the grocery
store totally freak me out. They never
read the bar code correctly, last week one tried to charge me $43.12 for a
banana. And don’t even bother waiting
for your change, because the damn thing isn’t coughing it up. The little checker inside has already taken
your change and gone to the Subway for lunch.
One
of the big box stores in our area just put in new self-checkout machines. You scan the item, put it on a conveyor belt
and it runs the item through a glass enclosed box before spitting it out the
other end. IF you’re lucky. I scanned the item, put it on the conveyor
belt and red lights started going off, sirens blared and four security guards
showed up.
“Step
away from the machine lady,” the guard said looking down the barrel of his
double-ought shot gun.
The
other guard looked at the printout. “I see you were trying to steal a TV, by
putting a pack of gum on the belt,” he said as he picked up the offending gum
on the conveyor belt.
I
looked at the printout. “Yep, that’s right, the read-out says the item is a
$3000.00 HD TV, you got me. I stuck the
60-inch screen in my bra. Wanna search
me?”
I
hate when you open a bag of shredded cheese and it’s all wet. Two days later it will be a glob of molded
rubber. How can something that tastes so
good, turn into a tire patch for my mountain bike? I think the Dairy Association is holding
secret meetings in Mootown on ways to create more money by making my cheese wet
and my milk sour before it hits the grocery shelf. If I can buy organic milk and
cheese that has an expiration date of six weeks, then why can’t I buy
full-of-preservatives-and-antibiotics milk and cheese that lasts longer than it takes me
to get to my car after I pay for it?
George uses one of those Bluetooth earpiece
phones. The obvious freakish thing here
is why isn’t it a “Blue Ear” instead of a Bluetooth? I was so confused by this when I went to the
doctor for an earache, I pointed to my ear and said my tooth hurt. He upped my loony toon meds. That point aside
people using these phones simply look like they
belong in the state mental hospital.
You know who I’m talking about…those whack-attacks walking through
stores talking to themselves. I don’t
believe for a minute they’re talking on a phone. It’s a disquise so they can talk to their
various personalities and pretend they are normal. I don’t need an earpiece to talk to all the
voices in my head. I’m proud to be
multi-tasking and willing to admit it.
The
thing that freaks me out the most is when I drop something and it rolls under
the stove. I have heart palpitations
just thinking about if I really need to retrieve it. I swear the portal to the underworld is under
my oven. If I stick my fingers under it
to get the runaway olive, a Being
will grab me and pull me in. I know this
is true, because I saw it once. That
otherworldy Being sucked my little brother into the void when he went for his
animal cracker. Some people may try to
tell you I’ve always been an only child. They are just afraid to admit the
existence of the portal and the real reason I don’t have a brother.
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