“You sure don’t cook like my mother,” he said.
“Yeah, you can work wonders with an electric can opener,” she said.
And usually, it is but I went through the McDonald's drive-through. I know what you’re thinking, whatever ever happened, you had it coming to you.
It’s a three-phase process. (1) You order on the intercom. (2) You pay at the first window. (3) You pick up at the next window.
At step 1, the intercom, the person speaking back to me talked so fast I thought I was at a Beijing McDonald’s. Once I dialed them back from 78 to 45 and eventually 33 1/3, I was able to order.
At step 2, a girl with purple hair, studded tongue, pierced lips, and nostrils took my money. Admittedly, though, it’s not that different than seeing a clown with bright red hair and nose, a chalk-white face, and smiling like taking his last gasp of life.
At step 3, which I like to call Death Con 3, a guy appeared in the pick-up window with round spacers in the lobe so big you could drop a Lady Liberty Half Dollar through them. Who could eat after that? In nearly unintelligible language he tells me to pull forward. Apparently, my order was not cold enough for pickup.At step 4, the bonus step, a guy brings out my order. I hope I don’t reach back too far but he reminded me of the character, Stumpy, from the movie, Rio Bravo (Walter Brennan).
Gone are the days of the youthful polite young ladies and gentlemen waiting on you with cheerful smiles and buoyant greetings. I miss the nerdy boy and shy girl with the only visible metal being their braces. They were full of hope and enthusiasm about their futures.
What I see now is a collection of misfits who are at the end of their road before taking the first step of their journey into life. It was, find a job or go to juvy. How they manage to keep from falling face-first into the French fryer beats me.
In a generation, we’ve gone from acne to meth sores.
And usually, it is but have you ever noticed in every single instance when somebody is murdered, everybody says the person murdered was about to turn their life around? Dang! What bad luck.
The person who gets murdered is often a lifelong drug abuser, in and out of rehab or prison all their adult life. They have a dozen or so failed marriages or relationships. Finally, they meet the love of their life (another loser about to turn their life around), find a job at Taco Bell, and after four tries finally get their GED.
They are found dead in a crack house laying on a urine-soaked and stained mattress. They’re in a room full of crackpipes, used needles, human fecal, and half a jar of Cheese Puffs.
And the media always find a cousin named Delbert who says their life was about to turn around.
The lesson; if you’re a loser, stay that way, cause if you’re about to turn your life around you’re likely to end up dead.
And it usually is but when my toaster finishes toasting, it sounds like the first two notes to Jailhouse Rock.
Allow me to explain. My toaster doesn’t pop up. A small door opens when the time is up and the toasted bread drops out the bottom. The door opens to create one note and closes to create the other. The sliding toast provides background.
It disturbs me. I’m the only one who hears it. Everybody else says, “Not really.” Why should that be disturbing?
Read or listen to the lyrics.
Everybody (all men) in the whole cell block
Was dancing to the Jailhouse Rock
Number 47 said to number three
“You’re the cutest jailbird I ever did see
I sure would be delighted with your company
Come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with me”
Even though this song is sung by the King of Rock and Roll and King of womanizing, it’s a bit too gay for me.
So at first because I was the only one associating my toaster’s sound with the first two notes of Jailhouse Rock, I began to wonder about myself. However, when I attempted Elvis’s arm swing and knee dip I pulled up lame for three days.
I think that was my self-awareness telling me there was nothing to worry about.
And it usually is but my half-gallon of ice cream is now 48 ounces instead of 64. I know they aren’t saying it's a half-gallon but they (grocers) and stocking it where the half-gallons used to be.
Here’s the problem; for most of my life I had a half gallon figured out to five servings. We had five in the family; three scoops for each of the kids, four goes to my wife, and I get five. (I’m the breadwinner and bigger.) As the children left home I adjusted to the ration of ice cream but by the time all the kids left home, I could get an extra night or so of ice cream for my wife and me. And I will admit to still taking the lion’s share.
Suddenly while dishing out the ice cream I noted a shortage of sorts. In order to get my five scoops they had to be adjusted smaller. It was then I checked the package and noted they were now 56 ounces. I adjusted. The result was buying an extra 56-ounce container every month. I think the ice cream people knew this all along.
Now mind you, the price never went down. It stayed the same for a while but soon raised.
Now we’re at the 48-ounce container. And the price in some instances is almost three times what was paid for 64 ounces. I'm not buying more ice cream just more containers.
Here’s what is really crazy; a pint of Ben and Jerry’s cost as much as some 48-ounce containers. Now thank you.
So I’m warning everyone; ice cream is merely a leading indicator. A gallon of gas will soon be 100 ounces instead of 128. You heard it here first.
The Jittery Goat has returned.
It really didn’t go anywhere. Nearly two years ago the name was changed to The Short Story Cafe. At the time, I thought it might better reflect the site's content.
In the last year or so several have asked, whatever happened to The Jittery Goat? Thus the site’s original name has returned.
A problem did arise; the jitterygoat.com domain name was purchased by someone else. Likely they saw tremendous financial potential in owning that domain name. The site URL is now www.jitteryg.com. It’s the best I could do. However, the site remains The Jittery Goat.
A warm thanks to all those who have visited.
“Mom is spending the weekend with us,” she said, “is there anything special you want me to pick up at the grocery?”
“Nah,” he said, “but stop at the hardware for some rat poison.”