As I was going throught the checkout line at the grocery store yesterday, I realized that a neutral observer might be mistaken in assuming that I’m shopping for an 8-year old.

I sheepishly realized that my basket was loaded with cookies, mac ‘n’ cheese, Golden Crisp, frozen pizza - a veritable cornucopia of childish culinary delights. I squirmed with discomfort as the others in line looked down their noses at my pathetic basket of artificially sweetened foodstuffs. It was one of those times where being a 6′5″ giant filled me with sadness and shame - there was nowhere to hide or hang my head. Instead, I pretended to be engrossed with Us Weekly and their fine coverage of Britney’s pregnancy and the socio-economic ramifications therein.

At this point, I can choose to react one of two ways. I can realize that being ashamed of my own groceries might signal that a change of nutritional priorities is in line. Perhaps I will take this message to heart and shop next time at a natural foods store, stocking up on my supply of organic fruits, unsweetened juice, and wheat. Instead of gallantly strolling the cereal aisle, I would meekly peruse the barley and oat husks aisle, mumbling to myself in ineffectual tones. Of course, doing so would make me no better than the emaciated progressive elitists that frequent such establishments. I’m more of a red meat and Grain Belt Premium man, myself.

No, instead I have chosen to warmly embrace my deeply felt grocery desires and accept myself for the childish imbecile I am. Next time I’m at the store, and some stuffy grownup sneers at me when I pass by the Quaker Oat Squares and reach for the Coco Krispies, I’ll throw billiards balls at their head until they lose consciousness. As the police officers are escorting me to the squad car, I will repeatedly shout, “Don’t disrespect me!”

And everybody will nod their heads and thank me for my heroic actions.

Some males, like myself, live in a world of unmarried contentedness. We eat, sleep, and defecate as we please, with little to no regard for the opinions of others. We live to please our wretched excesses, watch the Simpsons, and eat Pop-Tarts. This is the intended condition of man.

There are some who choose to leave our ranks and cross the line into marriage. They are unaware that their sweet, wholesome fiances will be transformed into a fire-breathing Nagzilla whose accursed commands will incessantly pour forth like some beating drum of the damned.

When men chose to traverse this course in life, they must first be punished by their friends.

My friend Tim got married last year, and we made him eat some nasty SPAM. This was a gruesome, unnecessary exercise that managed to get the message across to him. Now, my old bunk-mate Karl is getting married in a week or so, and this weekend was his turn.

A few folks (including Tim) went to the grocery store and purchased a package of the most disgusting-looking meat they had ever seen in their life. It was called “maw”:

When we slapped the wrinkly flesh onto the grill, it’s sizzling gave off a pungent aroma that was less-than-appetizing. We poured some BBQ sauce on it to fix that, and Karl’s once-sunny demeanor began to sour as he reflected on what he was about to consume. After a bit, the maw began to inflate distressingly, and a quick bit of online research revealed that maw is hog stomach. Perfect! When we flipped over the maw, stomach juices poured out of it and were licked up by the flames.

When Karl was finally forced to bite into it, he spent about a minute chewing on one bite. He reported that it had the consistancy of a fatty tendon. We commanded him to swallow and eat another bite. The maw had the characteristics of a deflated football bladder - it’s elasticity was sickening to the eye. To Karl’s credit, he gave it an honest try, but couldn’t eat more than a bite or two before we called it off.

Someday, maybe years from now, when Karl is married and his soul has long since been deadened to the pleasures of this world, Karl will look back fondly on the maw. Yes, he will long to return to the maw, perhaps even calling out to the maw in his sleep. Though it will now be too late, Karl will cry out in sorrow and hope for one last bite of its rubbery, stomachy goodness.

Fields of Rold Gold

Rock TV Presents:
The Perfect 4th of July

I recently heard some news that hit me like a sucker punch to the groin:

Subway has discontinued the use of Subway Stamps.

With the passage of this decree, America’s once bright and shining future has been replaced with a grim landscape of lava pits and horse carcasses. Literally, everything that Martin Luther King Jr. fought and died for has now been crushed beneath the oppressive leaden buns of Subway’s toasted subs.

Why would the bastards at Subway do such a thing? Were they losing too much money on the 6″ Sub giveaways? How much could those things cost, 19 cents a pop? Was it too much of an administrative nightmare for Subway clerks to accept filled-out stamp cards instead of US currency? Are they unable to break away from their casual conversations with coworkers in Spanish? They seem to be able to neatly wrap up my sandwich with relative efficiency, they can’t handle this?!

This is particularly sad for me because I was hoping to present the gift of filled-out Subway cards to my friends Karl and Maren at their wedding. There is truly nothing so romantic as eating fresh. Now I’ll have to go with my backup plan, the collectors edition DVD of Dunston Checks In, which may likely precipitate a hasty divorce. Fricking Subway…

At this point, given my shock over these developments, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I may well be forced to defecate onto a slice of Wonder bread and savor it as a delicacy. In my confusion, I may consume an entire deck of Skip-Bo cards (with ketchup). Quite honestly, I don’t know what the hell is going to happen, but I suspect that it won’t be pretty. When it all goes down, and you’re reading the horrible details of my torturous demise in the paper on Monday, I want all of you to go to Subway and order a 12″ meatball sub on parmesean oregano bread. I want you to take that sandwich and feed it to an owl. When the owl has finished eating it, you must then drown it. After a brief moment of silence, return to Subway and heave its bloated body at the first employee you see.

And somewhere up in heaven, Dr. King will be smiling.

A troubling message from guest-blogger Kevin…

Peter and I befriended each other in ought-1, two rough and tumble lads finding their way through post 9/11 life amidst pizza-pies. As our friendship grew, secrets passed back and forth, and bonds formed as rings around a fine tobacco-smoke. We joshed and sassed, as foolish lads are oft inclined, and the days turned into eves, weeks and years.

Then, along came fair Brdiget, her bosoms’ heaving with her dainty sighs. Alas, she took my brother’s heart, and held it under lock and key. One day, we were invited to sup at Peter’s new home, and Bridgit made a wayward comment about this or that. I called her on her foppish verbiage, and called her none other than a scurrilous whore who smelled of onions.

Young Peter, incensed at my audacity, did furnish a pistol. He deemed me a scallywag, wanton with sassifrass, and challenged me to a duel at ten paces. Haughty with spirits as I was, I accepted his challenge, and we dueled at sunrise. After seven paces, the rapacious fool did blindside me with a foul bullet, an utter cheat. His bullet pierced my kidney, and I slunk to the greeny grass in a dirge of ingnominy. “Coxcomb” I yelled be-twix’t the pulse of the bullets searing jabs. “Ye art no friend of mine. I wish you an errant codpiece!”. With that he grinned, took his fair maiden Bridgette over his shoulder, and gallantly ravished her in the woods of Eagan.

I lived to see another day… Our friendship did not…

A pox on his skullduggery…