August 9, 2004

• Food, firearms, and fantasy!

  
  

  Believe it or not, I have a quick and violent temper.  I also have great impulse control, which is why I haven’t killed anyone since the last century.  I usually carry a gun, but so far, no one I met has seemed to need killing badly enough for me to spend the rest of my life in stir.  But I digress.

  
  

  I live in a 10′ by 12′ cabin cum warehouse.  Space is sadly limited.  My “kitchen” consists of a small fridge, a microwave oven, and a wee coffeemaker.  My food prep space is roughly the size of a Mauritanian commemorative stamp.  So when I make sandwiches, I put the bread on my bed, maybe balance the lettuce on top of the TV, put the lunchmeat on the chair (and hope against hope the cat doesn’t notice it), and so forth.

  
  

  This is kinda nerve-wracking, and sometimes by the time the sandwich has been manifested on this plane, I’m a nervous wrack.  Uh, wreck.  Whatever.  Making it worse is the fact that sandwich bags are always just a hair too small for my macho sandwiches–they might do for dainty little girly-man cucumber sandwiches, maybe, but I sometimes rip off part of the crust so I can jam the thing into the Zip-Loc.  I put in lots of lunchmeat and a thick slab of pepper jack  and the maximum amount of lettuce allowed by law and so on.

  
  

  The other day, I was having more trouble than usual with this, and for one mad moment, I thought about hurling the damned thing on the floor and shooting it.  Reason prevailed.  However, for much of the rest of the day, the following kept running through my head:

  
  

  “I shot the sandwich–(but I didn’t kill the BLT).”

  
  

  Over and over and over, complete with reggae chorus. 

  
  

  Sheesh!

  • 11:22 pm
  • 3 Comments