BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I was looking at the news the other morning. This isn’t unusual, I do it every single morning. Well… When I have access to a TV. If not I listen to the radio. If I don’t have that I look for a newspaper. If I’m cut off from those too, well… I cry.

But that’s another story and I don’t want to talk about it…

The thing is, even with elections, exploding volcanoes, cholera epidemics, and airplanes falling out of the sky, one of the top news items was a “slow news day” sort of thing.

“What was that?”  you ask.

The McRib.

Yes… The sickly-sweet-sauce soaked, pressed, molded, and formed, non-rib pork by-products on a bun with a pickle. You see, “It’s back.” This is not to be confused with Carol Anne announcing, “They’re back.” We aren’t talking poltergeists here. We may, however, be talking zeitgeists… I mean, given that the golden arches would like for everyone to get all excited about pressed pork leavin’s on a bun, they are in effect creating their own, artificial, “spirit of the age,” so to speak.

Apparently, though, “the age” only lasts six weeks. It seems that’s what makes the “return of the McRib” newsworthy and not just commercial-worthy. The marketing geniuses  at the fast food mecca have created this overwhelming demand for a product by making it scarce. Their official position is even something to the effect that by restricting McRib trade they keep the “true fans” of the sandwich wanting more. And, I wasn’t kidding about them being geniuses – I mean, after all, here I am blogging about their damn McSammich, and adding to the buzz. No offense to my publicist, but I think maybe I need some of these burger folks on my team.

But back to the whole McRib Mania… I really have to wonder if we’re talking “true fans” or just sheeple that are getting excited over this.

Why?

Because if rib-shaped, non-rib, pork by-product patties are really your thing, you can buy them at the grocery store all year round. So what’s the big deal with the McVersion of the sandwich?

The Secret McBurger Police will probably have me silenced for this, but I think I know what makes it so special.

It just has to be the pickle… I bet they’re importing them.

More to come…

Murv

There are certain rules around our house…

I will meet E K at the door with her drink…

I will have dinner on the table no later than 30 minutes after E K arrives home…

I will spit shine all of EKay’s shoes on a daily basis…

I will do whatever E K tells me to do…

Sense a pattern there? Yeah, me too.  But the consequences for non-compliance with said rules are pretty harsh, so I just live with them. There are some other rules, of course. Most of them involve something I have to do in order to please The Evil One and keep her from taking me downstairs into her “play room” – which reminds me, I’m supposed to hose it down today after I drop her Stryker Saw off at the shop. I just hope she didn’t leave anyone down there. The trash truck doesn’t run for another couple of days yet…

There is, however, a rule that doesn’t directly involve E K… Well, sorta… I mean, the results of the rule compliance directly involve E K – as well as allow me to comply with the other rules of the house… But the actual rule is more along the line of – The Kitchen is MY domain, leave my stuff alone.

Surprisingly, E K generally works within the boundaries of that rule. Largely, I think, because she hates to cook, but likes to eat.

Because of this, it was a great surprise to me when I walked around the corner the other night and found her torturing a houseplant. I know, I know… Whiplash moment there, but trust me, there’s a connection. She was torturing the houseplant with one of my kitchen knives.

You see, we have this yucca plant… We’ve had this plant for something on the order of forever. Seriously. I’m pretty sure we had it when we moved into together. It has been through some serious trials and tribulations – namely countless plant chewing felines. During the summer it lives on our front porch, soaking up the sunshine and Saint Louis humidity, mostly safe from cats with plant fetishes. During that period of months the yucca goes crazy, sort of like it is making up for the rest of the year when it’s in fear for its life. By the time Autumn rolls around, and the first frost is upon us, the yucca looks a little… well… yucky.

And so, the temperature was forecast to plummet the other night, and plummet it did. Before it fell too far though, E K, in all her regalness, invoked her prime directive – that being the rule saying I have to do whatever she says.

“Lackey!” she demanded. “Go bring in the plants.”

Little did I know that in rescuing the yucky yucca from the cold, I was merely delivering it into the hands of a deranged redhead with a topiary affliction. Unfortunately for both of us – the plant and me – she didn’t have her pruning shears handy, so she headed straight for the knife block on the kitchen counter.

Of course, I suppose I should look upon the incident as an opportunity, because I learned something that evening.  Never mention the rules to an evil redhead who is holding a large, serrated bread knife in one hand and the hacked up limb of a defenseless yucca plant in the other.

We have a Ficus too, but it’s a little tougher than the Yucca. I think while she’s at work I’ll go hide my electric knives, otherwise they might end up dulled and it’ll be a little tough carving the turkey at Thanksgiving this year.

More to come…

Murv