Tag Archives: kitchen

Doggone A.M.

Posted by zxvasdf on

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS— (silence)

LIVINGROOM: BARK! BARK! BARK!

POPPA: What the—

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The dogs, mortal enemies in more normal circumstances, engage in gleeful cooperation by proceeding to take in their jaws the ends of his pajama pants and thrashing their head about in multiple directions. POPPA is divided between good humor and indignation.

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

POPPA: You fucking dogs!

PAJAMA PANTS: RRRRIP!

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS— (silence)

LIVINGROOM: BARK! BARK! BARK!

POPPA: Aw, damn it.

He stumbles into the kitchen through the shreds of his pajamas to investigate the mysterious behavior of the kettle.

LIVINGROOM: BARK! BARK! BARK!

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Her ringlets bounce happily the frame of her face, her toothy mouth babbling half-formed thoughts from a blue-shining gaze, her strong young toes precariously balancing on the edge of the stove mere inches from the incandescent heat of the burner and its hissing kettle, the answer to the mystery clutched in a fat little hand. A panicky POPPA, in his mad dash for her safety, is unbalanced by a natural tendency towards clumsiness masquerading as mortal horror and  trips upon the garbage can, spewing its noxious contents onto the floor, and  stumbling, skids across the room’s length on a piece of rancid cheese while he involuntarily engages in an inspired performance of the charleston until, finally giving up the cheese, he lands square on his back with a great big—

POPPA: WHOOMP!

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

BABY: WHEEEEE!

She dances in a paroxysm of limbs that is wont to children just learning to ambulate, does a remarkable unchildlike pirouette that POPPA fails to appreciate from his impoverished vantage position, and bends her knees, flexes bouncily, before hurtling herself onto now prone, half-conscious POPPA who catches her in his ample potbelly to emit a tortured—

POPPA: GAGGGHK!

—his legs sticking straight up with his arms before crashing to the linoleum, his stomach contracting to propel her giggling several feet into the air and she bounces for quite a while before she settles on his soft gelatin flesh to drop the wet dog whistle previously imprisoned within her hand onto his forehead and claps her hands on his cheeks to pull and ply the reddened skin like so much silly putty.

POPPA: (weakly) Honey… honey, could you please stop that?

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Garden Felicitations

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Miss Olivia Ladgrise confers with a close acquaintance, the Madam Jessica Souperkoup, concerning the subject of a favorite employee and his esteemed qualities in the garden and kitchen:

I love how he manhandles my watermelons and delicately plucks my strawberries. The cherries he drops into my hand, so succulent! Cucumbers, corn, carrots, celery, and eggplants! Many small mushrooms of all kinds and some quite large ones with a sweet flavor and a salty tang.

Red tomatoes, pressed together until they explode pulp to be simmered. He strokes the basil with tenderness as he brings it close to savor the scent. What magic he does with my oreganos, you would like to know! But it’s our secret. Oh. He clutches at my pomegranates with a thirst in his eyes. My avocados soften in the heat forged by his skilled hands.

Rhubarb! Oh, his rhubarb pie makes me melt with candied delight.

My Crazy Wife

Posted by zxvasdf on

Not everyone could boast having a crazy wife.
Not that I’m saying your wife isn’t, mind you.
She probably is.
You know how wives can be.
But my missus, she was honest to God full-blown batshit.
Mood swings.
Invisible friends.
Flying frogs dripping golden ichor while singing lamentations.
The whole she-bang.
She definitely fit the bill.
The poster girl for Sunnyvale Sanitarium.
And that was just on her good days!
And I loved her.
Doctors called it schizophrenia.
Her condition, not me loving her.
I called it an interesting distraction.
Again, her condition, not me loving her.
There was an upside to the whole off her rocker affair.
There always is.
She could never get enough of it.
Everyone should know what I am talking about when I say “it.”
Boy, after a long, hard day at work it’s a long, hard night in the sack.
She was quite imaginative.
I reckon being crazy had something to do with it.
It helped to be a good sport.
That was the third bed in six months.
It also helped to have a fat paycheck at the end of each month.
But I drew the line at fire throwing in bed.
She called that particular position Great Balls of Fire.
I didn’t want to make it literal.
She was a beast between the sheets.
And outside the sheets.
In the kitchen.
In the fireplace (don’t ask).
On the roof (I told you she was imaginative).
In the– well, you get the idea.
The contortions of her face would have put Linda Blair to shame.
Hell, if a priest ever performed a coitus interruptus, well, hello thar, exorcism!
I reckon an exorcism would probably have helped.
After all she was schizophrenic.
Isn’t that just another word for being beset with demons?

A blast from the past! This is an old entry from a blog of mine that has been since defunct, but lives on as the newest addition to my blogroll. This was written in 2005 and was inspired by the hilarious capers of Ross H. Spencer, one of the most underrated noir comedy writers. His books are difficult to find but I recommend grabbing a copy if you should happen to find one. His stories are extremely funny and are very easy to read, often in one sitting.

As for my old blogs, I had not perused them in a good while, and I was amazed at how much different I am today. That got me wondering…