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Did Anyone Catch the License Number of That Weekend?

Heya, folks. Just a quick entry, I’m afraid, to mention that there’s really no entry to speak of tonight. This weekend has kicked my ass, chewed me up, spit me out, turned me over and boxed my little jowls. Hell, I didn’t even know I had jowls!

(And trust me, folks, there is no body part that you want to discover the existence of by having it boxed around roughly. This is the second time it’s happened to me, and I haven’t enjoyed either experience. Plus, I’m not sure I would have ever needed to know what a ‘uvula’ was in the first place, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)

In any case, I apologize for not getting to you earlier today, but now I’m just pooped, and pooped all over. I’m pooped from my pinkies to my pate, with pooped-up stops at my prostate and pancreas. Even my privates are pooped. (But please, don’t let that get taken out of context. That’s how rumors get started, you see.)

Maybe it’s my own fault — maybe I bit off just a bit more weekend than I was prepared to chew. Certainly, it was jam-packed full — there was a play, with dinner and drinks out one night, and dinner (and drinks again, of course) with friends on another night. There was some CD burning (in the ‘making songs more portable’ kind of way, not the ‘Tipper Gore with her panties up her ass’ sort of way), and much TV was watched, with baseball, Simpsons, and Iron Chef America prominently featured.

(And never mind that the show pretty much seems to exist solely to kiss Bobby Flay’s snarky ass. The original appeared to be fixed most weeks, too. But for me, Iron Chef isn’t about ‘theater’ — or even ‘theatre’, if you’re one of those people who has your hoity stuck up your toity. Or you’re European. Or both, but I don’t even wanna think about that combination right now. I’m exhausted already, remember?

Anyway, I don’t watch Iron Chef to see who’s gonna win, or because I’m convinced that one day the ‘Chariman’ is going to cook and eat the loser, or even to play some silly, contrived drinking game based around how many times the commentators can say the word ‘luxurious‘. Though, come to think of it, that last one is a damned fine idea; somebody get working on that, would you?

But the point is, I don’t see Iron Chef as being about any of those things, really. To me, Iron Chef is all about one creative cook crafting a culinary crescendo of cockamamie crap that the other can’t match. It’s all a game of gross-out one-upmanship, to see who can sink to the lowest, ickiest depths and still put something palatable on the table:

‘You’re gonna use rat livers? Fine. I’m making soup from gutter scrapings. Once I add the bay leaves and tarragon, it’ll be a masterpiece!‘

‘Oh yeah? Well, I just used jock sweat in my bernaise sauce, and have a batch of petroleum jelly ice cream hardeding as we speak. Top that, bee-yiotch!‘

I swear, they should just stop fucking around and make pus the secret ingredient one of these weeks. Or skunk. Now there’s a challenge, people!)

All right, where the hell was I, anyway? Telling you what a busy weekend I’ve had, I think. Eh, we’ll go with that. I got nothing better right now.

So, I just wanted to check in and apologize to all of you for not having the energy to write tonight, but I’ve really got to hit the sack. It’s too bad that this — this, um… thousand-word-or-more mini-opus… is all you’re going to have to remember me by until tomorrow.

Sheesh. Even when I can’t write, I write. Well, I’m pulling the plug on this one right now. I didn’t have the time to write when I started this entry, and now that I’ve spent a half an hour writing about how I’m too pooped to write, I really don’t have the time. I’ve gotta get my beauty rest, folks — as they tell me around the office, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my job. Catchy, no? And oh-ever-so-uplifting. Feh.

But I’m kind of stuck, what with needing that paycheck and all. They’ve got me by the short and curlies, I’m afraid. The only way to fight back is to spend the next several hours unconscious and drooling, and dreaming of fantastic riches, or at least a private office. Or something involving honey mustard and a Bond girl. Whatever. I’m not so picky about the dreaming part. But the key is, I’ve got to hit the sack to get to any of those happy places, so that’s what I’m off to do. Hope you kids have a great night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite!