Phone Ethics: A Conversation

Oliver: So I was going through my neighbor's trash last night -

Gene: You what?

Oliver: I was going through my neighbor's trash....What? Why are you giving me that face?

Gene: You realize that is not normal right?

Oliver: Hold on.....I'm getting a phone call......uh.....

Gene: Why aren't you answering it?

Oliver: I don't recognize the number.

Gene: So what? Answer it.

Oliver: No.....I don't want to.

Gene: Are you serious? Why not?

Oliver: Well.......oops......Any way it's too late now. I'll let the voicemail get it.

Gene: Why didn't you just pick it up to begin with?

Oliver: I don't want to be thrown off by someone I don't know. You know, it could have been a telemarketer or something, I don't know. I'd just assume let the voicemail get it and then I can know who it was.

Gene: I don't see what the big deal is about answering. What do you think the worst that can happen is? Some terribly awkward person who wants to talk to you for 45 minutes? The mafia or something saying they are out to get you? Can't you just hang up if you don't like what you are hearing? I don't get this. Besides....it doesn't sound like they're left a voicemail.

Oliver: Yeah....no voicemail yet.

Gene: What are you doing now?

Oliver: I'm calling them back.

Gene: What?!? Now you are calling them?!? Just a second ago you wouldn't even pick up the phone for these people and now you are initiating a phone conversation? Does this make any sense?

Oliver: Shhhh....they're about to pick - uh....hello? Yes....did someone just call this number?

Gene: Exactly.

French Fries: A Poem

Curly Q or straight
Golden brown crisps and bite-sized
Potato vectors. Searing fleshy tongue
Microwave transforms leftover crunch to
Soggy, flabby. Swimming in grease pools
Taking dips in liquid crimson heaps
Fried and French: A Friend to the Fat
A Foe to the Flimsy
A Necessity at Burger King

French Fries: A Run On Sentence

The aftermath of Simon's unsightly barrage of formidable vituperation only left Lenny, Simon's loathly brother-in-law, with a lackluster and rather lethargic apathy, while on the other hand, it left Remmy, Simon's other, though no less loathly brother-in-law, utterly recalcitrant, who then decided to return the favor, not with his own invective opprobrium, but rather with a culinary assault of launching bushels of scorching-hot french fries from his Medieval catapult atop Simon's newly renovated house, which by the way, was only serving to perpetuate the ongoing gentrification in this particular neighborhood, which up until the late 90s was self-consciously opposed to any social trajectories deviating from traditional, historical categories, but unfortunately, after the congressional "push" in 2002, surrendered its priorities to the state's, which corresponds with what Hobbes wrote when he wrote, "When congress pushes; push back."

French Fries: A Conversation

Oliver: Are you gonna eat all those?

Gene: You mean, "all those" french fries I ordered? Yes. I am planning on eating what I ordered.

Oliver: Woah, easy killer. Don't get fussy with me. It's not that stupid of a question.

Gene: No, actually it's pretty stupid. And nice use of "fussy" there.

Oliver: You're telling me that it is a stupid question to wonder whether or not someone is planning on eating the mountain of fried potatoes that was just put in front of them?

Gene: It is a stupid question to assume the possibility that I might not eat what I ordered.

Oliver: Look at the amount of fries on your plate and tell me whether you are currently committed to the principle of "finishing what you started" or that you are actually in the process of developing an eating strategy to consume all 400 french fries.

Gene: Do you not think I am able to eat all of these?

Oliver: That's not the issue. The issue is whether or not my initial question was stupid or not.

Gene: It was stupid.

Oliver: You're stupid.

Gene: Prove it.

Oliver: You ordered 400 french fries and you are planning on eating all of them.

Gene: You're just being fussy because I'm not going to share with you.

Oliver: Exactly.

French Fries: A Portrait

fries of the french

French Fries: A Short Story

Jean, the Pastry Master (also and otherwise known as the 'Bread Artist') scrambled about in his kitchen for the confectioner's sugar. It was not in its place. You see, everything had "it's place" in Jean's kitchen - meticulously organized spice racks (alphabetical order), strategically placed pans (the heavier pans on the lower shelves), and methodically structured oven times (muffins and scones in the morning; cakes and tarts in the afternoon). But his system was is utter disarray now. The confectioner's sugar was not in its place.

"Rose!" Jean snapped to his understudy, "I am missing zee confectionah's sugar! Whuh izz eet?!?!"

"I have not seen it today, Pastry Master (Jean made all employees refer to him as that). Is it not in its place?" Rose responded elegantly.

"NO! Eet izz not in eet's place!"

Jean was now bustling about in haste, turning over pans of scrambling eggs, sweeping off entire table tops, and knocking over a full stock pot of bubbling stew (he also dabbled in soups, stews, and stoups in addition to pastries) trying to find his very much needed confectioner's sugar. "WHUH IZZ EET?!?!?!?!?!"

Jean was in the middle of preparations for his famous lemon bars. He was at the last and most crucial step in the process - a gentle dusting of confectioner's sugar. But without the confectioner's sugar, there would be gentle dusting.
It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Jean knew that the after-school-crowd was like clockwork: Every day at 3:30, his quaint pastry shoppe ("Ye Quaint Pastry Shoppe") filled up with students fresh out of school and freshly in need of lemon bars. In fact, he kept his entire shoppe financially stable due to the lemon bar sales alone. And with thirty minutes (actually twenty-nine now) counting down, he had no lemon bars.

In utter desperation, Jean surveyed his kitchen for a back up plan. He could, of course, whip up a batch of his cherry tarts, but alas, those need a good 3 hours to cool before serving. He could, on the other hand, throw together a few eclairs, but alas, he had not made any custard that morning. And then it hit him. It hit him like someone had thrown a rock through his window and it smashed into his cranium. It hit him like someone taking a baseball bat and swinging with all of their might into his rib cage.

French Fries. Of course.

Jean and Rose quickly chopped up some potatoes (they had plenty on hand from today's Potato and Tomato Stoup), sprinkled them with salt and paprika, and immersed them in the deep fryer. With only a few minutes to spare, Jean removed the piping hot fries ("chips" in Britain), packaged them appropriately, and waited for the after-school-crowd.

At 3:30, the door swung open and in poured the excited, sugar-dependent pack of hungry students. But their looks of excitement quickly vanished and were even quicker replaced with looks of disgust when Jean, the Pastry Master, was not waiting for them with a plate of lemon bars, but rather a few grease-stained bags of french fries. Sensing their frustration, he bellowed, "Surprise!!! French Fry Day!!!"

They were not amused.

French Fries: An Adventure

I just discovered something that I did not know. This week is officially recognized as the National Week of French Fries. It is the one consecrated week of the entire calendar dedicated to fried potato strings - actually, French fried potato strings.

Thus, in lieu of the National French Fry Week, I have decided to dedicate a blog-a-day for the remainder of the week towards the end of honoring the beloved French Fry. If they (the powers that be) can dedicate an entire week to the French Fry, then I (the power that be) can dedicate a blog-a-day for the entire week towards the honoring of the French Fry.

And here begins our adventure...

Mispunching: A Conversation

Oliver: So I was swimming at the community pool yesterday and I happened to see this one kid flailing, lurching, and mispunching in the shallow end.

Gene: Mispunching?

Oliver: Yeah, you know, shadow boxing.

Gene: Shadow boxing isn't the same as mispunching.

Oliver: So, you knew what mispunching was to begin with?

Gene: Yeah, I knew what it is. What I don't know is why a child in the shallow end would be mispunching.

Oliver: Interesting. You got caught up more on "mispunching" than "lurching"?

Gene: Sure. I could see a kid lurching in the pool. But mispunching? Come on. Get real.

Oliver: I don't see why a kid mispunching would be any less believable than a kid lurching. If you told me you saw someone both lurching and mispunching, I would find that believable. It seems to me that if you were lurching, you would almost by necessity have to be mispunching.

Gene: No, no, no. I totally disagree. Lurching does not necessitate mispunching. Not at all. Lurching necessitates....movement. But not mispunching.

Oliver: Lurching totally necessitates mispunching...which is movement, of course. Have you ever mispunched?

Gene: I've mispunched.

Oliver: Did you lurch when you mispunched?

Gene: No.

Oliver: Liar.

Gene: Exactly.

A Blogue

Asperity.

If Cameron Diaz was to marry Kirk Cameron, her name would be Cameron Cameron.

If Chino Espinoza married Al Pacino, his name would be Chino Pacino. (I like saying this one aloud repeatedly.)

If Meryl Streep married Will Ferrell, her name would be Meryl Ferrell.

If Meryl Ferrell separated from Will Ferrell and got married to Jacqueline Daryl, then Meryl Ferrell would be Meryl Ferrell Daryl.

Now what if Meryl Ferrell Daryl hid in a barrel? Singing Christmas carols? With Fred Harrell? Sending out posts via Errol? To her own peril? In an environment that is sterile?

An Epilogue

The following is taken from the Epilogue (After Word) of Reuben Thimpery's "Sandwiches: Neither Sand nor Witches"



So there you have it. The myth has been dispelled. The lies have been exposed. The rumors have been hushed. The whispering has dissipated. The longings have been crystalized.

Thus far we have traced the origins of the Sandwich - finding its vintage beginnings in the Middle Ages where men who "always needed to be holding something," developed a way to put lettuce between two hunks of barley dough. The Sandwich later intersected with the development of the Hamburger (which surprisingly did not originate in Hamburg, Germany, but rather Burgham, Russia. See ch. 19 - "Hamburg or Burgham?"), which of course, evolved and splintered off into several different modifications: the Bagel Sandwich, the Panini, the Wrap, the McMuffin, the Whopper, and the McRib. The concept was simple. The implications were devastating.

The government has long purported "sandwiches" to be a quick, easy, consumer product "on the go" (as they say, (see ch. 8 - "Sandwiches in Brown Bags are for Dumb People")) and have advertised them as such - roping in unsuspecting housewives, lawyers, children, and men who "always need to be holding something" (see ch. 14 - "Why Men Always Need to be Holding Something"). But "sandwiches" remain the most deceptive, duplicitous, egregious invention (with a patent) that the American government has produced. The lies have been exposed.

Sandwiches do not contain sand. All of the research reported in ch. 29 - "Mr. Sandman, Bring me a Lie" yielded that 99.9% of sandwiches across the globe contains no sand (with the only exception being the Sandy Clamwich in Menduza, India).

Furthermore sandwiches are not made by, nor have any known association with witchcraft. No spells, curses, magic, magick, sorcery, or any paranormal activity surrounds the creation and distribution of sandwiches, as our findings revealed in ch. 30 - "WitchCraftwich?"

So where do we go from here? Ethically, we must boycott. We must create new morally-significant ways of eating. Granola Bars are a great substitute. As are Porridge Bars. Soups are good. Stews, as well. Any Victorian Classic that pre-dates "sandwiches," really.

A Prologue

The following is taken from the prologue of Alexander Heath Yeamen's "Discovering Discovery for the First Time: A Journey through the Pallawanee Rain Forest"....



186 days. 10 degrees fahrenheit below at night. 108 degrees fahrenheit at day. You do the math.

The contents of this book are the contents of my lack of contentment. Contentmentless, I ventured away from the city to the forest, away from the chaos of the sirens, gunshots, and advertisements to the chaos of animals devouring each other and no working toilets. I abandoned my post at Lunar Jack's Snack Shop to take up the post of picking berries, trapping and bar-b-que'ing squirrels, and not shaving. I didn't shave for 186 days straight. I didn't bathe once. I didn't brush my teeth. Not so much as a mint, an altoid, a mentos, or an altoidos. And I didn't even watch television once. It was rugged. raw. real. ridiculous.

In the city, I was anonymous. In the forest, I was king. In the city, I was a robot - churning the cranks and rods and spurnets of the Machine. In the forest, I was free. In the city, I had air-conditioning. In the forest, I didn't. Just the clothes on my back. And a canteen. And some toilet paper. And a few altoids (ok, so I lied up there).

The Rain Forest served as a Metaphor for me. It provided the insight (and the outsight, mind you) that the city obscured. I was removed from the clutter of traffic, schedules, and rent payments. I entered the jungle of mosquitos, large growling things at night, and sunburns. (I didn't shave once.) The Metaphor of the Forest was that I had abandoned my former life to discover my inner life - that at my core, deep down in my soul, beneath the hair, skin, fingernails, and hair, I was destined and designed for refrigeration. And air-conditioning. And microwaves. And clean, hygienic razors for my facial stubble. That is what I discovered. I realized that I am Man, not savage. I am Man, not walrus. I am Man, not tree bark. And as Man - I have needs. Needs that the Forest could not meet. Needs like Hot Pockets. And hamburgers. And chimichangas. And clean, hygienic razors for my stubble (I didn't even shave once.)

This is my journey. My song. My discovery of discovery.