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Corn-fed Harvest Scientist

Issue Date: Thursday, Mar. 18, 2004

Yesterday Mister and I dined at Arby’s for lunch.

We are trying to log as much lunchtime as possible as his last day with his present employer is the 25th.

We did not run into any talking oven mitts or any unruly horseradish, but we were, however, accosted verbally by the manic woman (on an upswing) manning the cash register. She greeted us with a hearty, “HEY!” in almost a screech.

Mister and I both turned to look behind us, totally expecting to view a man running away with a freshly snatched purse or something. No one was behind us.

We tentatively approached her realm of ‘all that is menu’ to make our selection.

After getting our chicken strips and roast beef sammich we found a cozy little booth and sat down to enjoy our meal.

Suz: Bite? [holding out her sandwich]

Mister: No thank you.

Suz: [noticing an old man parking his pick up, getting out and hobbling inside] Oh look. He’s so cute with his little blue coveralls, I wonder if he would let me hug him.

Mister: Most likely, but he’d probably goose you, then I’d have to clobber his ancient ass.

Suz: I love old men, always have yanno… hasn’t momma told you stories?

Mister:Yeah, so… what was the deal with that Scandinavian Goat Farmer?

Suz: Oh, that was just a phase.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] So, how is lunch for you two?

Mister: Fine, thank yo….

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Great, great! Perfect, wonderful! Greatgreatgreat! [and… she retreats]

Suz: What was all that about? [under her breath] freak.

Mister: HellifIknow. [under his breath] spaz.

Suz: chew

Mister: chew

Suz: Ok, I have to ask… where did the ‘Scandinavian Goat Farmer’ thing come from?

Mister: Remember our first date how we went on and on about that cockeyed parakeet with the overactive air bladder (so that he flew all screwy) and that he had a slight over-beak [makes the hand motion to signify the over-beak… like an overbite.] a shaggy mane and a spastic colon?

Suz: snort Heh, yeah… you’re funny.

Mister: Well, I have a theory about the secret to being a great comedian.

Suz: Oh reeeeallly? … Ut oh.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] So, how is going?

Mister: Just fine, thank yo….

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Perfect, perfect wonderful! Great wonderful!! [and… she retreats]

Mister: Uh…

Suz:… Lithium much?

Mister: Heh, … anyways…. My secret for success for comedians is loosely based on … oh, what’s his name?...that fat one from Tommy Boy

Suz: Chris Farley? Can’t wait to hear this one….

Mister: Yanno how he would take the most ordinary thing and build it into this big description?

Suz: Yep….

Mister: The more adjectives you put into something, the funnier it is… take for instance…the corn-fed harvest mouse… Ut oh, here she comes again.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [approaching the table] Are ya’ll doing ok?

Mister: Yes.

Wacked Out Cashier Lady [rapidly nodding her head] Wonderful news!!!!!!!!!! [and… she retreats, breaking into a song about rainbows and elves… kidding… sorta]

Mister: I think I’m gonna get a cherry turnover thing. Want one?

Suz: No, thank you.

Suz: … wait… yes, I do.

Suz: No, no I don’t.

Mister: Are. You. Sure? [gets up to go to the counter]

Suz: Yes, thank you. [leans over her tray to take a small bite of her sandwich, promptly drops a dollup of ketchup on her boob.]

Suz: Dammit. [addressing her boobs….] Ladies, ladies, ladies, I even have on the minimizer and you catch the ketchup.

Mister: What?

Suz: Nothin, I’m just talking to my boobs.

Mister: …………….. ok [continues to the counter]

That is why I love him people. He makes me laugh, handles my ever-changing mind like a pro and doesn’t think twice about me talking to my hooters.

When my sister and I were little we would enclose ourselves in the bathroom and take stock of everything that we had under the sink.

Shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, mouthwash, detangeler, Q-Tips™, Dixie cups and hairspray. Nail polish remover and that setting lotion for hair too. Not to mention the cleaning products like Comet and those scrubbing bubbles™ guys.

We would line up the products on the counter, bust out the Dixie cups and commence to make the largest mess possible by mixing different combinations of all the ingredients. Two little curly headed precious girls making a mess that would deter even Alice from the Brady Bunch.

We would mix the ingredients with one another regardless of toxic fumes or whether it would eat through the paper cup. We would sneak Daddy's shaving cream to give a particular potion a frothy finish.

We called this game playing Scientist.

While driving home from work last night I was thinking about what to make for dinner. I was mentally lining up all the ingredients that I had in the pantry, the freezer and in the refrigerator to see what I could make.

I guess we never really stop playing Scientist.

Now it’s just called cooking.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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