Thursday, March 6, 2008

On the Merits of High Cholesterol

Ohio, 06 March 2008
Were Cholesterol a marketable commodity, folks in Middle America would spend their free time polishing their fleets of Beamers and Benzes with designer-logoed hand stitched diapers and Southern California might wither into a desolate wasteland of dehydrated low-carb salad greens.
Cholesterol probably didn’t come from this region any more than MSG originated in China, but that doesn’t change the fact that it seeps into everything in a way akin to Dune’s mélange. Your blood cholesterol has climbed since you started reading this. You think I’m trying to be funny. You won’t be laughing when you’re gripping your chest trying frantically to remember those instructions we’ve all received in our inboxes 642 times with the subject line FW: FW: RE: FW: FW: FW: What to do if you think you’re having a heart-attack.
Even the breading has breading here. They have a cute name for breaded breading: Hush-Puppies. I once saw the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.
(No, these are not my photos.)
It’s the star attraction of Cawker City, Kansas. I wonder if somewhere there exists a World’s Largest Hush-Puppy? Imagine the deep fryer you’d need for something like that. Most people have probably heard of the Fry-Baby and Fry-Daddy:
This would be like the Fry-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather. We’re talking a fifth-wheel trailer with Bigfoot tires and a big-ass NASCAR logo on the side and that uses about as much electricity as Guatemala City. Now that’s Americana.
So how did all this begin? The frying and re-frying, I mean. Is a vegetable-oil cartel behind the whole thing? Yesterday I ordered a ham-and-Swiss sandwich on wheat bread because the folks I’m working with were ordering lunch from a family-style restaurant. I figured it was a safe bet, because I felt a little greased-out. The sandwich arrived warmish and dressed in oily wax paper. With reservation, I unwrapped my lunchtime treat of a grilled Swiss cheese sandwich that had somehow managed to envelop four slices of Canadian bacon like some kind of mutant-fast-food-amoeba. A carnivorous grilled cheese – I bet Darwin never saw this one coming. Clearly some kind of cultural misunderstanding had occurred here, or maybe I had simply forgotten one of the cardinal rules about unknown restaurants. When in doubt, order the Club Sandwich.
Check out this little gem I found:

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Five sheets to the wind in Copenhagen. Ok I’m lying, I’m in a cheap motel in Ohio.

Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot. That's so my new favorite expression.

So I'm in Ohio on business in early March, thinking,"Well, TECHNICALLY winter is over in like 2 weeks, right?" And it's 50 degrees when I leave the airport, so I figure I'm safe for the time being. I think I'll italicize what are THE OPERATIVE WORDS IN THAT SENTENCE.

[>>] Fast forward to Chapter 2.

Ok seriously, people live here. In Ohio. Like 365 days a year and every fourth year they get AN EXTRA DAY. To freeze their God-Fearing Asses off in February. Which has 2 r's for no reason that any living person can tell me.

Pause, focus. That actually wasn't Chapter 2 – that was more of the epilogue to Chapter 2. Chapter 2 starts with leaving the motel where I'm staying at 8-something in the morning and walking out into something like a cross between a sandstorm and a snow-cone factory. Not shave-ice. I'm talking snow-cones, like the kind made from little granules of ice that are whizzing thru the sub-zero air so fast it would peel the flesh from your bones if you were only thawed enough to be pliant. OMG my whingey little "I wanna be a proper SUV when I grow up" rental car... It looks like it was dipped in molten sugar syrup and is about to be sold in some giant's candystore as a frosty treat for their kids that has a squishy, wriggling center. FEE, FIE, FOE, FUM...


Sorry I couldn't hear that over the sound of my frozen hands desperately scraping at the ice with $2.50 worth of leaded Chinese plastic like that girl you never saw in Silence of the Lambs. The Bahamas. Think about The Bahamas.
Please don't let my friends I grew up with in Chicago ever read this. I'll be disowned.
But that settles it. This place is not suitable for human life. I think maybe Midwesterners are distantly descended from Martians. It's witches' tits there too.