Okay, gang, take a knee. I am fucking starving, and I'm also loopy as hell, because the gunk in my chest from a few nights past has progressed. Is it Ebola? Probably not. Is it still unpleasant? Sure. We'll go with that.
Because I'm so loopy, I am in no condition to come up with the insightful, on the nose comedy that you usually see here.
As a result of these two facts, I have booted up the old laptop (which is just the worst, because McAffee keeps trying to yell at me about how I need to renew my license, and I'm all, bitch, don't tell me what to do) and am going to (attempt) to live blog an attempt at cooking (already in progress, but we'll go with the general idea).
1820: I enter the kitchen. It is a fucking disaster, because I haven't had an opportunity to clean it properly since the chocolate crêpe cake incident of 2014. I wonder if this is why Jeff wants to scramble my huevos. I prefer not to think about it.
1821: I realize that there is a surplus of dishes in the sink, left over from my previous attempt at a cheesy vegetable casserole. It was adequate, but too moist. I may try it again, but not in the near future. My intentions are a variation on chicken cacciatore, as found here. Of course, you may guess that I will not be following the recipe exactly, because bitch don't tell me what to do. The sink, though, is a disaster. There are fruit flies all over the dish from the vegetable casserole. I pause to note the irony. I begin the process of clearing the sink.
1822: I begin to actually keep an eye on the time, as measured by our stovetop clock. The dishes continue, and they are awful. I chill the bottle of wine required for this evening's plans.
1837. I have completed the dishes. I realize now that, sickness and all, my current wearing of a jacket will be a hindrance in this evening's endeavors.
1846: I have completed writing the blog up to this point. I have begun playing Pink Floyd's new album as background music and to sample its board of fare. I remove my jacket and don an apron. I roll up my sleeves, because nobody wants chicken on shirtsleeves. That's just disgusting. So far, the album sounds a lot like Wish You Were Here, but the parts from Shine On You Crazy Diamond before the guitar and vocal parts come in. This does not bode well.
1849: I begin to cut the chicken. Yes, it calls for a whole chicken. Fuck no, I'm not doing that. I've tried that before. It was miserable. I hate trying to debone a chicken. We're going with breasts, because I'm nobody's patsy. I also begin to heat some oil. I don't measure it, because I'm a rebel who has no time for measuring such things for this recipe. I sharpen my steely knives. Let it begin.
1857: Of the four chicken breasts, only one is fully thawed. I am thoroughly vexed, and none may understand my frustration. I slip into a deep depression. I tenderize the one thawed piece of chicken, but my heart just isn't quite in it. Halfhearted thwacks are broken up by a terrible ad about Jesus and underwear on Spotify. The microwave summons me to break apart the chicken, which just cannot be done, because these are chicken breasts. Why do you ask the impossible, microwave?
1900: The chicken has become cooked as it defrosts. Rather than risk overcooked chicken, I remove the cold breasts from the microwave. My relationship with the chicken has become a domestic sitcom. I am the frustrated husband, the chicken, the nagging wife. I have arrived home from work, and the chicken awaits, eating bonbons on the sofa, mooching off my hard earned blood and sweat. I want nothing more than for this to end. I fear I may not survive this.
1913: The chicken is on the stove and cooking in a thin layer of oil. I begin to cut the bacon, thinking that this may rouse me from my depression. I sincerely doubt it.
1916: The Lady has arrived and has begun telling me about her day looking for dressers. She had the day off. She has not hugged me yet. I fear for my soul. The Pink Floyd album just sampled the Stephen Hawking bit from Keep Talking from The Division Bell. Nobody liked The Division Bell, Pink Floyd, not even Stephen Hawking. Don't even pretend that they did.
1924: The Lady has admitted that she does not like my blog, and yet she wants a kiss. I will die alone and unloved. Now she corrects my spelling. I am an island, but not a rock. You were wrong, Simon and Garfunkel. I can no longer believe in anything.
1927: I begin dicing onions. I have set The Lady to work stirring. She complains about my housekeeping. There is no justice in the world.
1932: I have begun chopping mushrooms. My soul cries out in anguish with each slice of the knife. Why must we devour our chitinous friends of the forest (because, see, fungal cell walls have chitin in them, or so said my high school biology text)? I sense the cruelty, and yet I become inured to it, and apathy reigns victorious
1939: The Lady admits to her delinquent past and hatred of puns. She eyes the knife rack sadistically. I fear for my safety. I may not make it out of this alive.
1946: The Lady refuses to add herbs or spices, so I set her to work dicing tomatoes. I later wonder if dicing tomatoes would have restored my faith in humanity and the world. I cannot help but dwell on missed opportunities. I am in a personal Hell of my own making. There is no God here, only regret.
1949: It occurs to me that the pot I am using may be too small for an undertaking of this magnitude. I open the wine to help deal with this revelation. Its poison refreshes my mind by does nothing to lift my lugubrious spirits. I open the wine with a Houdini, reminding me of the late harry Houdini- a man with great talents and skills, a man who was appreciated for a novelty, a man brought down by his own hubris, a veritable Icarus and Daedalus rolled into one whose name has been ascribed to parlor tricks and corkscrews, ensuring immortality at the cost of his brilliance. Despite myself, I cannot sympathize with such a creature. My time will be finite, and despite whatever worldly glories I achieve, I will be forgotten, relegated to tax records and dusty yearbooks.
2004: The Lady wishes to watch Team America: World Police. I feel a kinship with the puppets. Strung along, unable to move of their own accord, fighting endless battles. The Lady asks to punch me in the face. I acquiesce, knowing that it will do nothing to stop the eventual entropy that will consume us both. The Louvre is destroyed. It all ends in dust and darkness.
2011: I begin to boil water for pasta. Coughs rake my body. I watch the steam rise from the pot, lost forever like memories of a day in preschool. The sight of the tendrils of steam leave the pot reminds me that you can't ever go home again. Like the water, my blood boils at this sight. The water can shift between ice, water, and steam (and, you know, other forms of ice, plasma, Bose-Einstein condensate, etc.).
2025: We cannot flit between our roles. We are not water. Life is not water. We go about and find our niche, but we cannot leave it. We are defined by what we are not, rather than what we are. There is no escape. Where is our God now? If created, why ignored? If ignored, why created? God has become an iterative problem in an Excel worksheet, and the circular reasoning error plagues the spreadsheet of our lives.
2033: Puppets dance before me on a glittering box, and yet I am unamused. Does God feel this way? Does God feel? Pasta soaks up water, and spices bloom into flavors, and yet I find no joy, no whimsy, no spark. My depression grows. I fear it may never end.
2037: There is no escaping the ennuie that has consumed my mind. Pasta? Chicken? These are trifles. The Lady reclines on a couch, and what does it all mean? Nothing. None of this means anything. I want to go out and burn it all down. My legacy will end in fire and sadness. I will not go gently into oblivion. I will not succumb to the gentle harp music of the heavens. I will not allow myself sullied by the pacific afterlife. I will burn it all. The Lady says that veterans aren't people. I don't want to live on this planet anymore.
2054: The pasta in finished. It's actually pretty okay, all things considered. It took a while, but it's done. Life begins anew Everything... everything is gonna be okay.
Because I'm so loopy, I am in no condition to come up with the insightful, on the nose comedy that you usually see here.
 |
| I am, of course, talking about puns. |
As a result of these two facts, I have booted up the old laptop (which is just the worst, because McAffee keeps trying to yell at me about how I need to renew my license, and I'm all, bitch, don't tell me what to do) and am going to (attempt) to live blog an attempt at cooking (already in progress, but we'll go with the general idea).
1820: I enter the kitchen. It is a fucking disaster, because I haven't had an opportunity to clean it properly since the chocolate crêpe cake incident of 2014. I wonder if this is why Jeff wants to scramble my huevos. I prefer not to think about it.
1821: I realize that there is a surplus of dishes in the sink, left over from my previous attempt at a cheesy vegetable casserole. It was adequate, but too moist. I may try it again, but not in the near future. My intentions are a variation on chicken cacciatore, as found here. Of course, you may guess that I will not be following the recipe exactly, because bitch don't tell me what to do. The sink, though, is a disaster. There are fruit flies all over the dish from the vegetable casserole. I pause to note the irony. I begin the process of clearing the sink.
1822: I begin to actually keep an eye on the time, as measured by our stovetop clock. The dishes continue, and they are awful. I chill the bottle of wine required for this evening's plans.
 |
| And, believe me, these plans are nefarious. |
1837. I have completed the dishes. I realize now that, sickness and all, my current wearing of a jacket will be a hindrance in this evening's endeavors.
1846: I have completed writing the blog up to this point. I have begun playing Pink Floyd's new album as background music and to sample its board of fare. I remove my jacket and don an apron. I roll up my sleeves, because nobody wants chicken on shirtsleeves. That's just disgusting. So far, the album sounds a lot like Wish You Were Here, but the parts from Shine On You Crazy Diamond before the guitar and vocal parts come in. This does not bode well.
1849: I begin to cut the chicken. Yes, it calls for a whole chicken. Fuck no, I'm not doing that. I've tried that before. It was miserable. I hate trying to debone a chicken. We're going with breasts, because I'm nobody's patsy. I also begin to heat some oil. I don't measure it, because I'm a rebel who has no time for measuring such things for this recipe. I sharpen my steely knives. Let it begin.
1857: Of the four chicken breasts, only one is fully thawed. I am thoroughly vexed, and none may understand my frustration. I slip into a deep depression. I tenderize the one thawed piece of chicken, but my heart just isn't quite in it. Halfhearted thwacks are broken up by a terrible ad about Jesus and underwear on Spotify. The microwave summons me to break apart the chicken, which just cannot be done, because these are chicken breasts. Why do you ask the impossible, microwave?
 |
| Just leave me alone, microwave Yoda. Also, bitch, don't tell me what to do. |
1913: The chicken is on the stove and cooking in a thin layer of oil. I begin to cut the bacon, thinking that this may rouse me from my depression. I sincerely doubt it.
 | ||
| Bacon. Don't talk to me about bacon. |
1924: The Lady has admitted that she does not like my blog, and yet she wants a kiss. I will die alone and unloved. Now she corrects my spelling. I am an island, but not a rock. You were wrong, Simon and Garfunkel. I can no longer believe in anything.
1927: I begin dicing onions. I have set The Lady to work stirring. She complains about my housekeeping. There is no justice in the world.
1932: I have begun chopping mushrooms. My soul cries out in anguish with each slice of the knife. Why must we devour our chitinous friends of the forest (because, see, fungal cell walls have chitin in them, or so said my high school biology text)? I sense the cruelty, and yet I become inured to it, and apathy reigns victorious
1939: The Lady admits to her delinquent past and hatred of puns. She eyes the knife rack sadistically. I fear for my safety. I may not make it out of this alive.
1946: The Lady refuses to add herbs or spices, so I set her to work dicing tomatoes. I later wonder if dicing tomatoes would have restored my faith in humanity and the world. I cannot help but dwell on missed opportunities. I am in a personal Hell of my own making. There is no God here, only regret.
1949: It occurs to me that the pot I am using may be too small for an undertaking of this magnitude. I open the wine to help deal with this revelation. Its poison refreshes my mind by does nothing to lift my lugubrious spirits. I open the wine with a Houdini, reminding me of the late harry Houdini- a man with great talents and skills, a man who was appreciated for a novelty, a man brought down by his own hubris, a veritable Icarus and Daedalus rolled into one whose name has been ascribed to parlor tricks and corkscrews, ensuring immortality at the cost of his brilliance. Despite myself, I cannot sympathize with such a creature. My time will be finite, and despite whatever worldly glories I achieve, I will be forgotten, relegated to tax records and dusty yearbooks.
2004: The Lady wishes to watch Team America: World Police. I feel a kinship with the puppets. Strung along, unable to move of their own accord, fighting endless battles. The Lady asks to punch me in the face. I acquiesce, knowing that it will do nothing to stop the eventual entropy that will consume us both. The Louvre is destroyed. It all ends in dust and darkness.
2011: I begin to boil water for pasta. Coughs rake my body. I watch the steam rise from the pot, lost forever like memories of a day in preschool. The sight of the tendrils of steam leave the pot reminds me that you can't ever go home again. Like the water, my blood boils at this sight. The water can shift between ice, water, and steam (and, you know, other forms of ice, plasma, Bose-Einstein condensate, etc.).
 |
| Water, you fucker. Don't you sass me right now. I will straight up curl into a fetal position, and things will be just super awkward. |
 |
| Also, God is still using Office 2003. God, why you gotta be so old? |
2037: There is no escaping the ennuie that has consumed my mind. Pasta? Chicken? These are trifles. The Lady reclines on a couch, and what does it all mean? Nothing. None of this means anything. I want to go out and burn it all down. My legacy will end in fire and sadness. I will not go gently into oblivion. I will not succumb to the gentle harp music of the heavens. I will not allow myself sullied by the pacific afterlife. I will burn it all. The Lady says that veterans aren't people. I don't want to live on this planet anymore.
2054: The pasta in finished. It's actually pretty okay, all things considered. It took a while, but it's done. Life begins anew Everything... everything is gonna be okay.
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire