You Are a Club Sandwich |
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Some people consider you high maintenance, but you just know what you want… and when you want it. Your best friend: The Tuna Fish Sandwich Your mortal enemy: The Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich |
What Kind of Sandwich Are You?
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Another episode in our favorite series of (cephalo)podcasts. Here is the Great Cthulhu taking viewer’s calls and dealing with telemarketers as we all wish we could.
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Is this the oil that launched a thousand chips?
Make haste toward that tiled, enchanted room.
Prepare thy drawers perchance some foul thing slips,
Or thundrous peals from out thy cornhole boom.Though nature’s oils sufficed from dawn of man
For culinary functions tried and true,
It seems that P&G technicians can
Replace them with an oleated goo.And now Olestra has begun her reign.
The Dark Queen sits and cackles in the night,
Dispensing bouts of shooting rectal pain.
Her fudge erupts from sphincters once held tight.Beware the chips that claim to be your friend.
The Hershey squirts will get you in the end.
Truly and often have the poets confronted us with our own torn desires; we love what we despise, we crave what we cannot tolerate, we desperately need what we can never have. Fecklessly falling for fallacies, we cyclically succumb to snake oil salesmen. And always, the poets are there, taking notes.
viz. this, an epic verse-cycle dedicated to that peerless promoter of poopage, Olestra. This, my friends, is truly a work of art, this generation’s Sonnet 130. It is genius, not any ordinary talent, that could spin such a gossamer web of pure poetry on the subject of anal leakage.
Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie…
Olean… Olean… Olean… Olean
I’m begging you, please leave my sphincter shut
Olean… Olean… Olean… Olean
Please don’t go and lubricate my gutYou’re found in products everywhere, with fatty taste beyond compare;
Of mouth-feel, so enticing, you’re the queen!
Each cake is tasty, but so brief, each chip is crisp as autumn leaf;
And I cannot eat just a few, OleanYou wake me up when I’m asleep; there’s nothing I can do to keep
From oozing when I’ve had too much Olean
And I can easily see now too, how you can easily flow right through,
But you don’t know what that means to me Olean
(chorus)
Well you’re in every kind of snack, but I could never turn my back
You’re the only fat for me Olean
I have to have this talk with you, my skinniness depends on you
Whatever you decide to do Olean
(chorus)
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“Then” being back when I had a 9-5 (actually, more like a 5am-9pm) with Starbucks and “Now” being now that I’ve lived here long enough to be accepted as “honorary Chinese” at the shops around these parts.
Then: three kinds of pasta
Now: three kinds of seaweed
Then: Kitsilano restaurants four nights a week
Now: poverty vegetarian stirfry five nights a week
Then: jogging at two in the morning because that’s when I got home
Now: jogging at two in the morning because that’s as late as I can put it off
Then: chinos and “dress shorts” five days a week
Now: pjs and workout clothes 9-5, cocktail dresses 5-12. I think I have chinos…
Then: smelled like coffee
Now: smell like whatever Chanel scent I last bought when I had a windfall, currently Allure
Then: SpaLady gym 3x week, running in the rain
Now: climbing apartment stairwells and doing exercise videos 3x week, running in the rain
Note: never, not for a moment, consider joining a single-sex gym. At the SpaLady there was a large group (in all senses of the word) of Eastern European women, all of whom still believed that undergarments were still strictly rationed in the West. In order to preserve the structural integrity of their bras and cheap nylon granny panties, they wore them OVER their t-shirts and polyester slacks with the topstitched crease. And they did this while wearing curlers in their hair, accented with cheap polyester chiffon headscarves.
Please God I never have to see something like that again: a row of them on the stairmasters in front of me meant I would be switching to the rowing machine ASAP. A row of jiggling granny panties, with or without lace elastic ruffles, is enough to turn anyone bulimic.
We know what it’s like. It’s two in the morning, your hand won’t let go of the remote, and your innate optimism is driving you to click past yet another NADs commercial, whispering there must be something good on, there must be something good on…and so dawn finds you, bleary yet hopeful, thumb numb, clicking onward in search of the one interesting show that has to be out there.
Allow me.
Ladies, gentlemen, and undecided, we present the one channel on which you can all depend. No, not the Yule Log.
Available 24/7, Cheddarvision never disappoints. Like Fox News or state channel of a banana republic, you always know what you’re going to get: a wheel of cheddar, slowly ageing on a shelf in realtime. If you’ve ever thought that Watch the Grass Grow cam was too fast-paced, if you’ve ever thought that watching slo-mo replays of golf got you too riled up before naptime, if you’re the kind who eschews cough syrup because you might get a wicked high, then this is the channel for you. Watching a wheel of cheddar age has got to be more interesting than the gossip around the canasta table in the ward lounge.
If not, email me. I love a good canasta tale.
raincoaster 