Why I hate you (if I do):
Because you bought Quaker Peach-Flavored Instant Oatmeal to avoid cooking. If this is you, bubbeleh, my millennial friend, listen up, and fast. Cause I got the rants real bad AND I need to get to at least one of my probation officers before noon. Ready?
- Quaker Instant Oatmeal takes two to three minutes of desultory stirring, which for you should be a cinch, the desultory part, that is. Two to three minutes of continuous involvement in the same activity, on the other hand, is not what you signed up for, is it, baby?
- Quaker regular oatmeal takes about 5 agonizing minutes that you’ll never get back for al dente, 6 for mush, and I’ll bet all the donuts from here to Des Moines that you’ll leave the dishes for me.
- Upon closer inspection, the ersatz fruit glimmering in its matrix of oatmeal kitty litter is actually apples. Dried apples treated with all-natural flavors to taste like peaches. Let the Nazi comparisons begin, food torturer!
But you won’t, will you? Make the regular or instant oatmeal. What you really want is peach-flavored oatmeal that comes pre-poured into a bowl, adds its own boiling water, then eats itself up. What you really want is a frozen-rock-solid turkey the size of a Volkswagen – for Easter, but that’s another day’s rant – which you start to defrost at 3pm; what you really want is not Nutella on a croissant, but Reese’s Peanut Butter Chocolate Spread straight from the jar.
You, my friend, are all tenderness for you and tyranny for us; wooden leg and no torso, all mom-in-a-jar instead of a head; and whatever you think I’m thinking while you save the world by just being me, you’re probably right.
FB Life Event #476 – Possibly forgotten, but more likely bogus, trip to Stockholm
Facebook continues to astound but at new, Olympian levels.
Apparently I was in Stockholm two years ago today. Who knew!
Although there is a suspiciously large lacuna that must be filled – namely, a Stockholm-trip-sized, bigger-than-a-muthafucka lacuna of stupefying proportions – and although I have no recollection of this trip – of the fancy dress ball at Drottningholm, perhaps, or the pickled herring washed down with lashings of ice-cold Absolut – And where, by the way, are my lingonberry conserves, I ask you, who appropriated the souvenir meatballs? – I must needs practice humility and own what is mine to own.
Because, frankly, ever since my 60th birthday my slowly liquefying brains have been trickling out of my ears at an alarming rate, and even, at times, dropping out in big, moist, grey chunks that land on the floor with a wet plop similar to, say, a piece of potato that’s been boiled for three hours. Make that – cauliflower.
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