Tag Archives: humor

Playing with Fire

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Crack Pie 2There is a restaurant in New York, the Momofuku Milk Bar, that has a pie so addictive they trademarked its name, Crack Pie. And guess what?

You can order this $44.00 dessert and have it sent by overnight delivery for Thanksgiving as long as you make their November 22nd deadline.

Momofuku’s Christina Tosi dreamed up the recipe; it’s a toasted oatmeal cookie-like crust with a gooey butter filling that has a rich salty-sweet taste. There is also a recipe on Epicurious (image by Christopher Griffith) with a litany of helpful reviews that share cooks’ tips.

Preparation time is 15 hours from start to finish so it’s not a light commitment.  The long wind-up probably contributes to the craving sensations that begin to crop up around the 11th hour. I’d make two just in case.

Really?

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I got my driver’s license in the mail today. And frankly, I have a bone to pick with the entire government of the Motor Vehicle Division of the state of Kansas.

I can forgive them for the 2 1/2 hour wait in the renewal queue; I can overlook the institutional  carpet and the yellowed-beige walls in the concrete waiting pen; I can rationalize their lack of clear signage and, since it’s not their fault – the obnoxious nerd of a guy sitting in front of me whose loud conversation consists mostly of f-ing this and f-ing that.

But, it is Absolutely Inexcusable that the picture on my driver’s license, a document that I will have to safeguard and display repeatedly for the next 5 years, looks like I volunteered for a police line up in a serial burglary spree.

Never mind that the today’s simplest technology enables a third grader to take a National Geographic grade photo, never mind that automatic photo booths are a new art form, never mind that even a dimwit with an iPhone can win a photo contest.

Oh, hi – Clerk-person. I’m afraid I lost my license. Where is the line for duplicates? 

Over-look

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An orderly at the hospital catches my eye as he pushes a patient past the waiting room to freedom. He is wearing hospital-regulation-issue boxy pants and tunic in a royal blue. And he has thick-soled imported athletic shoes whose construction purposefully pitches him slightly forward as he walks.

The dark hair on his forearms is in stark contrast to his pale skin; several tattooed bracelets circle each of his wrists.  He has a single rhinestone stud in his right ear. His face is a narrow oval shape with just a shadow of a beard. Yeah, a fairly regular guy.

His hair, however, is quite fashion-forward. He has doused it with gel of some sort to rake it all upward so that it looks vaguely like a mini great wall of china balanced on the crown of his head. As he passes by, his scalp reflects tiny points of light from the overhead glare.

Move over comb-over, there’s a new dude in town.

House Cat Auditions

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Right around the time of world series baseball, Sig decides the changes he wants for the outside and inside cat line-up roster. Since this has never been a Topic of Conversation, he’d be, no doubt, a little surprised that I consider this time of year as Fall Cat Recruitment.

Last year, Molly, our yellow tabby, died while I was on vacation. (Thank God.) (That’s Thank God for not having to deal face-to-face with her demise, not Thank God she died,  as she was a good ole cat.)

But anyway, her movement as it was, opened up an inside slot. So, the porch cats are Gray Balls, Robert Parker, Zach and the newest, Zorro.

Gray Balls and Robert Parker actually belong to the house two doors to the east. But ever since they figured out they can eat when Sig feeds Zach they’ve claimed our porch as theirs.  Zach has lived on the porch ever since Sig added a heating pad to the glider; he’s pretty happy where he is and has a major aversion to coming inside.

Zorro is the cat that is probably headed for the inside. He’s hardly ready.

He hasn’t been around very long.  He is a coal black cat with green eyes and a winsome little body that has never been nourished. Sig drug him in for testing and neutering and at the end he bolted from the carrier as if from a slingslot.

He doesn’t know that he has already has won the audition.

Ka-ching

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My motorized coin sorter has finally, finally come.  When I notice it sitting on the porch glider, I swoop it up, slice it open, scan instructions and start looking for batteries.

(Note to self: It is no bargain to buy a sleeve of 20 batteries at one time, unless you have a family of 5 who power up daily or your entire village is hunkering down for a ice-storm.) I go to the store to buy new batteries.

As I wheel down the aisle, I notice that big bags of little candy bars, the kind of Halloween candy that makes a house, a really good house – are on sale, 4 for a 10 spot. Such a dilemma. Here it is a week before Halloween and I’m going to actually buy candy? What the hell, I get four bags.

So the candy and the batteries – with coupons, the total comes to $11 something. Woohoo.  Still the afternoon can sour. If my new machine is a big dud, well – then, probably I’ll open at least one of the bags of the little candy bars.

I put in the batteries. I fit in the coin wrappers. I read the directions. Do 20 at a time — 500 coins for a session.  I turn it on and spill a handful of coins into its tiny bin, it gurgles and grinds and flips each one neatly into its coin wrapper. It is just so stalwart.

You gotta add it to your wish list. Though — those of you in the upper 1% may want to pass, your coin cache will tear it up .

Pam Am – I Yam

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I tuned in last night to see what the buzz was about.

I see a cluster of tightly clothed, young, smiling stewardesses, a gaggle of attractive flyboys and lots of well-heeled passengers hurtling through space in a sleek Pam Am airplane. Admittedly, I haven’t been here since the launch so am a bit behind in the story lines. Best I could figure out …

Stewardess A has discovered she is not in love with the love of her life and has to figure out how to retrieve the engagement ring she pawned which ended up in a Jazz Joint in Harlem, aided unwillingly by an endearing but socially inept junior pilot.

Stewardess B is about the business of attaching herself to an intriguing well-dressed foreign passenger because that is what she does.

Stewardess C is a pool shark and some kind of an informant to a quasi American government type who rocks a fedora. Her assignment is to snag the fingerprints of a Mata Hari who hangs out at a Monte Carlo casino.

Oh, and then the innocent young captain of the plane is seduced by a passenger who turns out to be the calculating mistress of a blustery Pam Am executive who has a fit when anyone puts their greasy fingerprints on his red jaguar.

So, see you next week.

I’ll have what she’s having

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I figure what I do to my own face is pretty much my own call. After all I am the one who wakes up to it every day. And if a look in the mirror makes it hard to keep my winning edge, I look for some kind of relief.

The giant cosmetic industry is more than eager to supply any matter of fixes. The constant flood of new products has on more than one occasion exiled my Pond’s Cold Cream to the back of the medicine cabinet. But generally speaking, the claims have far outpaced the products. Until now.

You see, I just don’t think I can resist an anti-aging wrinkle cream company that has a sense of humor. God knows that’s what we all need when girding up for a battle against the ravages of time.

0426-o

The Big Lucky

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It came in an officious-looking 9 x 12 manila envelope with Open Immediately  stamped on it. I rip it open and out falls a giant brochure announcing that I, Stevie Reynolds, am  a winner. I gotta admit, I like how they think.

There is a real key attached to the brochure, a key to my new (a 2008 Ford Fusion SE ) car. Other prize options are $15,000 in cash, a Walmart gift card from $5 to $2500, two tickets to a KU MU game on the 50 yard line or $75.

All I have to do is scratch and match. My lucky number is 992392, I take the key off the brochure and use it to scrape off the silver medallion for the big reveal. It Maaatches!

What threatened to be a day full of routine labor has morphed into a day of bright promise. I need to take my brochure and hustle into Bob Allen Ford to see if I, too, will join the lucky winners from Bristol, TN, Ellijay, GA and Osage City, KS.

And then it occurs to me, the big prize is a 2008 model? And don’t we all know this is 2011 and really – in car years, awful close to 2012?

Geeze, Bob Allen Ford. I don’t think so. Take my name off your list of winners. And really stop sending me this crap.

Stranger in a Strange Land

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Let’s see, we have Delicate Pearl,  Fuzzy Sheep and Pickling Spice. And then there’s Safari, Pine Cone, Light Sage. Hmmm.

Over here is Light Incense. Dark Linen. Alpine White. Dill Pickle. Dried Plantain. Pale Sea Mist. Polished Pearl. Dill.

Shiny Silk.
Ballet White.
Pillar White.
Sultana.

Alrighty. Here’s Aged Parchment. Polar White. Bagel. Princess Ivory. Sand Dollar White. Chai Latte. Orange Glow.
Kansas Grain.
Warm Cocoon.
And something called Serengeti Sand?

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I think you can. I need paint. Point me in the direction of green, white and yellow, would you?”