I'm Not Wearing Any Pants
I have to put something on top of that last post, and quick.
I wouldn't want it to be the first thing people see when they look here. I really don't know what gets into me. Am I like that all the time, and most of the time I'm hiding it from myself and everyone else? Or am I normally well-adjusted, confident and cheerful, overtaken by the howling only on those rare dark nights of my soul? Well, no matter now. I'll deal with it when I have to.
I was going to discuss what I did yesterday, but it's probably more germane (what does that mean, really?) to tell what I ate yesterday. I was invited to two Superbowl™ parties. Have you ever noticed that the TV commercials for big-screen televisions that proliferate in the weeks leading up to the Superbowl™ never say the word "Superbowl™?" Beer and taco commercials, too. They always refer obliquely to "the big game." That's because the National Football League has claimed the word "Superbowl™" as their own, and if you try to make money with it, they will make you pay. Dumbass idea, since everybody and his Dutch uncle knows what is meant by "the big game." I'm going to trademark that phrase. Then I'll get that Lexus and that penthouse.
Anyway, I could hardly sleep last night, not because I was pondering the monumental importance of who won the game, or who was even in the game, or the fact that I didn't get to see Paul McCartney's tits (although I was told that Alicia Keyes was trying to have a wardrobe malfunction, but nothing happened). No, I couldn't sleep because the things in my stomach weren't getting along, and some of them were trying to leave the way they came in. Because I ate
20 grapes
5 pineapple pieces
8 pieces of salami
8 pieces of cheddar cheese
1 hot dog (no bun or condiments)
1 hamburger (white bun, mayo, catsup, pickle relish)
Chex mix (numerous handsful)
Doritos (much crunching)
2 bowls of pasta salad with feta cheese
5 pieces of rotisserie chicken (very small)
1 10-inch skewer of little shrimps (possibly poisonous)
20 round crackers of some sort, plain (couldn't find anything to put on them)
2 bowls of chili (cheese and onions on top)
7 glasses of water (due to heavy salt intake)
It should be noted that I consumed all this in less than three hours, and that the water was in addition to the usual amount of water we all drink every day (you're swallowing eight glasses, right? Good.). This intake was necessitated by the extremely high salt content of everything else I ate yesterday. Add in the fact that I didn't do much chewing, but simply kept stuffing things in the front, thus forcing earlier items down the back and you can see that my stomach had a big job, and one it was not used to, or, evidently, up to.
So I stuffed in two pounds of useless crap, stayed up way too late on a school night, lay in bed moaning for a good long while before drifting off into a fitful coma, and I still don't know who won the game.
Also my pants don't fit.
I wouldn't want it to be the first thing people see when they look here. I really don't know what gets into me. Am I like that all the time, and most of the time I'm hiding it from myself and everyone else? Or am I normally well-adjusted, confident and cheerful, overtaken by the howling only on those rare dark nights of my soul? Well, no matter now. I'll deal with it when I have to.
I was going to discuss what I did yesterday, but it's probably more germane (what does that mean, really?) to tell what I ate yesterday. I was invited to two Superbowl™ parties. Have you ever noticed that the TV commercials for big-screen televisions that proliferate in the weeks leading up to the Superbowl™ never say the word "Superbowl™?" Beer and taco commercials, too. They always refer obliquely to "the big game." That's because the National Football League has claimed the word "Superbowl™" as their own, and if you try to make money with it, they will make you pay. Dumbass idea, since everybody and his Dutch uncle knows what is meant by "the big game." I'm going to trademark that phrase. Then I'll get that Lexus and that penthouse.
Anyway, I could hardly sleep last night, not because I was pondering the monumental importance of who won the game, or who was even in the game, or the fact that I didn't get to see Paul McCartney's tits (although I was told that Alicia Keyes was trying to have a wardrobe malfunction, but nothing happened). No, I couldn't sleep because the things in my stomach weren't getting along, and some of them were trying to leave the way they came in. Because I ate
20 grapes
5 pineapple pieces
8 pieces of salami
8 pieces of cheddar cheese
1 hot dog (no bun or condiments)
1 hamburger (white bun, mayo, catsup, pickle relish)
Chex mix (numerous handsful)
Doritos (much crunching)
2 bowls of pasta salad with feta cheese
5 pieces of rotisserie chicken (very small)
1 10-inch skewer of little shrimps (possibly poisonous)
20 round crackers of some sort, plain (couldn't find anything to put on them)
2 bowls of chili (cheese and onions on top)
7 glasses of water (due to heavy salt intake)
It should be noted that I consumed all this in less than three hours, and that the water was in addition to the usual amount of water we all drink every day (you're swallowing eight glasses, right? Good.). This intake was necessitated by the extremely high salt content of everything else I ate yesterday. Add in the fact that I didn't do much chewing, but simply kept stuffing things in the front, thus forcing earlier items down the back and you can see that my stomach had a big job, and one it was not used to, or, evidently, up to.
So I stuffed in two pounds of useless crap, stayed up way too late on a school night, lay in bed moaning for a good long while before drifting off into a fitful coma, and I still don't know who won the game.
Also my pants don't fit.
posted by Larry Jones at 3:30 PM
8 Comments:
my guess, it was the hotdog, the hamburger, the salami, and all those poor shrimps...
Sorry Eric. I guess my menu must have revolted you more than most people. And, yeah, it's not bad enough we eat the little critters (and the big ones), but we skewer them and make then into salami. What the fuck IS salami, anyway?
Probably those gnomes know...
My Mother would love you. - I think it's a Norwegian thing?
This is the last straw. Are you trying to fix me up with your mother?
damn! you eat even weirder combinations than I do!
L -- I just eat whatever's in front of me. I don't seek out the weird combinations -- they just happen when you're not paying attention. Makes it hard to maintain my boyish figure, though.
Your stomach was paying you back for refusing to add hot wings and nachos to the mix.
No, no, no!
In fact, I insist that you stay AWAY from my mother.
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