This is not exactly the same flavor as the rest of my blog, but I had a request for it over the weekend, so here is a reprint of one of my old pieces.
First published in Dicey Brown Magazine
I Want To Tell The Ducks Fuck You For Not Eating the Quiche
I want to tell the ducks, “Fuck you,” for not eating the quiche. I want to put too much Chinese mustard on my egg roll because I prefer wasabe and I am pissed off that there is no Japanese restaurant in town, decent or otherwise. I want someone to actually taste the bad milk, roll it around on their tongue, chew it up, gulp it, and ask for seconds. I want to make macaroni and cheese with too little water and an extra packet of powered cheese and eat it from an oversized glass mixing bowl while watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island because I never saw Mrs. Thurston Howell the third eat quiche, with or without wasabe, that prudish bitch.
I want to ride in a hot air balloon, over a funeral with a fantastic number of mourners, so I can yell down: “Popcorn! Peanuts! Hotdogs!” I want the fat guy in the third row to stand up and wave a twenty at me. If he did, I would jump out and give him two jumbos with chili, onions, and mustard. Then I would say, “You’re money is no good here, sir” as if I were a magnanimous bar patron and he were a New York firefighter.
I want to walk into the middle of an Atkins diet seminar wearing a three piece suit made of bagels, rice pilaf, and raspberry-filled Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I want the fat guy from the funeral to be there, eating his hotdogs and flipping the bird to the group facilitator. For dessert, he could eat the raspberry filled Krispy Kremes in a lewd and lascivious manner. Right in front of me, he could morph into the Wife of Bath, gap toothed and all. I would say, “Holy Shit!” and then add “Batman” for good measure.
I want to take a cab from North Carolina to Philly and get a goddamn authentic cheese steak. I want it to be full of mushrooms and onions. I want my girlfriend to have an orgasm when I say the word mushroom. I want the fat guy from the funeral and the facilitator from the Atkins seminar to both give me a high five because I made my girlfriend have an orgasm simply by saying the word, “Mushroom.” The fat guy should also do a highly choreographed end zone victory dance while wearing a giant cheese wedge on his head. Hell, he owes me that much by now.
I want to not be embarrassed when my girlfriend makes comments about fat people in public because I am secretly envious that she has no disconnect switch that filters what she thinks and what she says. I want to be able to make rude comments in a guilt-free fashion about fat people in public because, damn, can’t they look in the mirror and tell they’re fat? And aren’t they deserving of ridicule? And don’t I look good in these pants?
And since most quiche is made with chicken eggs, I think those goddamn ducks should not be so fucking sanctimonious.