Porkchop Sandwiches!
Last week was a pain in the back globes. It really was. Work was being turbulant and I was doing my best to drive myself into a mentally miserable state. By Friday morning I was feeling miserable and work wasn't helping at all. I wasn't feeling like entertaining, cooking, drinking, or anything... I was even trying to figure out how to still have the party without having to actually attend it myself. For once, insomnia actually helped me out. Had I gone to bed like a normal person, I would have woken on Saturday still feeling like pyuck. Instead, a muse kept me up until the wee smalls and I was able to get my head straight. Muses can be funny like that.
So I woke up that morning (woke up that morning)... with blue moon in my eyes... no wait... wrong show. I woke up feeling good. My head was on straight, I was happy to see old friends. I had a spring in my step and song in my head. I was a skirt and some nazis away from the hills being alive with the sound of music. All was good.
The only problem with being up until 5:00AM was that I was going to be groggy and had to run errands in a fairly short amount of time. That's ok, though... nothing could stop me... i was a man on a mission. I should have had a cape.
The first order of business was to go to Costco and pick up some meat and its bready friends. I bought a commercial grill and it wanted to grill like a mo-fo. I have no idea what mo-fos grill like, but I think it's intense. Point, where'd you go?
I hate Costco.
It's full of people.
I might be getting over my distrust and angry at the entire population of the world though. After spending time in an ER with strangers who a basically doing what they can to keep you going, I have to think that some of the masses are worth saving. Maybe in a big Ziplock bag.
So yeah Costco. Costco was full of people and the parking lot was a mad house. I was kind enough not to run over a pedestrian, so I'm growing. He had a fake leg though, so maybe that had something to do with it. It was one of those uber cyborg legs that former olympians who get their limbs caught in farm equipment have. Not like the old woodies of the past. He waved at me as I let him past. I fist, thumped my chest twice and pointed at him... "I feel your pain, man. Solidarity!"
He looked at me like I was on drugs.
I looked at him like he was on drugs.
An hour later I found parking.
Inside, I went straight to the piles of meat department. I needed big packages of hamburgers and hot dogs and all the good things you'd find at an outdoor fiesta. I found those easily enough, but the smallest package of hotdogs I could find was enough to feed Peru. But it was only $3... what a bargain! I want to get a few cool items... like chocken (say it like I spelled it yo) and some ribs. Ribs weren't cheap and so I bought just enough for each guest to get one rib. I figured if anyone complained, I'd tell them it was a tribute to the bygone days of Chris Rock being funny.
I also figured I'd do up some peppers and onions for the sausages, but I wimped out. I couldn't justify buying onions by the gross metric ton. I don't even know what a gross metric ton is, but I'm sure that I don't need that much onion. I did get some fresh (as far as I knew) corn for grilling.
It was here that I ran into problems. It was senior citizens day at the free samplers and they'd created a wall of carts and human debris that was blocking me from my exit. I went left around to the bakery to get out there, but alas it was free cookie day for children with bad skin. Millions of them. They swarmed over the poor woman from Keebler and dragged her down. She handed me a note and said, "Give this to my kids... tell my husband I love him."
And then she was gone under the mass of the dirty pants gnomes.
I didn't know who her husband was so I just balled up the note and went on my way.
About this time, some carnival barker of a man began preaching the new religion of making your own juices from the comfort of your own kitchen. This caused a power rift as the seniors began to congregate around the man with the stylish Madonna microphone. The pigs in a blanket guy and his friend at the crab bucket had had enough of Mr Microphone stealing their customers and staged a coup. It was just the distraction I needed.
When the crab guy started strangling Johnny Juicesalesman with his beard net, I made my move. I rammed my cart through the mob who were all watching the scrum. I hit a cart that had a toddler in it and he hit me across the face with a 4 foot pepperoni stick. Right across the bridge of the nose. No time for pain though. Had to keep moving towards the front. Bobbing. Weaving. Pepperonied.
A fat lady jumped out at my from behind a large box and asked me if I want to try some dry cereal or bulky underpants. I ignored her, but she persisted, chasing me. She was fast for a woman her size. I pushed the cart as fast as I could and then stood up on the back rail, coasting on the momentum. It turned to see the fat woman chasing me, flinging dry cereal and bulky underpants left, right, left. I leaned back, holding the cart with one hand and with the other fired a can of shaving cream at her in true Mad Max fashion. She went down... and made a big noise.
I arrived at the front check out... long lines of people... all puzzled about why I was firing shaving cream into the air, yelling "Attica! Attica!". I also then remember that I might not actually have any cash to pay for all of my loot. I got lucky, my debit card got me through. Fleeing as fast as I could after check out I again sailed my cart towards the open door... suddenly a person in red smock veered towards me with a sharpie and an open hand.
"Receipt please."
"Receive this!" I shouted and gave her a mouth full of frothy Gillette shaving goodness.
I collapsed with my purchases at the trunk of my car.
No one from Costco was chasing me. Phew.
My shaving cream can was empty. There'd be no shaving that day. I'd also lost a 50 pound bag of M&Ms and a box of 12 inch tooth picks. I bowed my head. Too many losses.
Damn you Costco. Damn you to bulk shopper hell.
Next... the actual party