Somewhere a Clock is Ticking

October 3rd, 2007

“I couldn’t understand some parts of this article, but it sounds interesting.”

Does this phrase sound familiar to anyone else? Does it make you want to poke your eyes out with the tines of a razor-sharp lobster fork or maybe, I don’t know, a BADLY COOKED PORK BELLY as much as it does me, because THE SPAM. THE NEVERENDING SPAM.

Mmmm … Spam. Spam sounds oddly delicious right now, and there might be a few hormones roiling to make such a pork product seem appealing, and certainly the only way that could be worse is if it was potted meat food product or creamed chipped beef in a can. And the thing with potted meat is that honestly, it’s no worse than Slim Jims, and while I could eat an entire container of jumbo-size Slim Jims in one sitting, I am spooked by the potted meat food product. Truly though, I am entirely unafraid of mechanically separated chicken, and beef jerky of any kind is your friend. And if you haven’t had Damn Good Beef Jerky, why not? Get a trick or treat jerky basket! Personally, I placed an order for three pounds a few days ago, which means that you’ll see a very bloated me in a matter of days. My eyes are very dark brown and I have a chicken pox scar between my eyes — just peel back the folds of fluid-filled skin to check if it’s me.

Hey! My dad sounds great, thank you for all of your help. He already sounded downright giddy, but frankly, I’m blaming the painkillers, for I’ve never heard him so chatty. It’s more than safe to say that I did not draw my effusiveness from my father, for if there is a more reserved man, I don’t know that I’ve met him. My father can go entire conversations without saying a word, choosing instead to sit back and watch my stepmom and I talk our faces off, occasionally throwing out the perfect pithy comment like a handful of diamonds. Except tonight? OH HELLO DID YOU KNOW MY HIP FEELS GREAT AND THE DOCTORS ARE GREAT AND WOW, I FEEL GREAT! GREAT! HOW ARE YOU? GREAT! LOOK AT ME WITH MY SHINY NEW HIP I FEEL GREAT OH MY GOD HOW ARE YOU HONEY I HOPE YOU ARE GREAT?

Oh, it was so nice. I mean, I can’t really wish this for the long-term, of course, but a little morphine seems to do him good.

And hey, I know I’ve mentioned this hundreds of times before, but let me briefly (ha HA!) ask: Has underwear evolved THAT much in recent years, or have I been living under a pile of Hanes Her Ways? The tanga! The boyshort! The hipster! Are these new inventions, or are they merely undiscovered gems I’ve let languish, opting for such comfy little numbers such as as Jockey for Her: The Panty Line Maker! Now, for the first time in my adult life, I am fully pleased with my underwear selection and have had seven solid days without riding up or panicking about my choice. It’s … it’s one of those things you don’t realize you needed until it arrives, like a filling after a months-long toothache or a good dose of ibuprofen and a lie down with a headache. And I can also vouch for these, just in case you want a second source, although if they’ve been on Sundry’s bum, it’s a safe bet that they’re top shelf.

Aaaand, without giving anything away, Adam just interrupted my ranting and announced, “Seriously, Jonna? SERIOUSLY? It’s not worth screaming at the television for Top Chef. It’s TOP CHEF! TOP FREAKING CHEF. RELAX.”

I just … I think I’m going to be sick. I really do. I THINK I AM GOING TO BE SICK. I, TOO, AM SPEECHLESS.

And the thing is, I can’t stop. There is no relaxing when it comes to the end of Top Chef. THE HELL? Or should I say, THE PORK BELLY?

I hope y’all have a great Thursday.

*Snow Patrol

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