June 16, 2005
A Bone to Pick (well, actually a Sprout)
Brussels sprouts are not food. There - I said it. They may be edible. They may not be flat-out poisonous. But I submit that there is a gap - nay, a vast chasm - between that which is merely edible and that which may be considered actual food.
I mean, grass is edible, if the grazing habits of cattle (and sometimes the family dog) are any indication. So is Elmer's Glue - a fact which I proved conclusively in first grade. But do you want any grass on your salad? Any Elmer's in your coffee? I think not. So I have a bone to pick with whatever misguided caveman decided that Brussels Sprouts were food.
As near as my highly trained team of archaeological experts can determine, a big part of a caveman's workaday life was spent determining what you could and could not eat. Those had to be challenging times, wandering around in a loincloth, picking random leaves and berries in a gastronomical game of Russian Roulette. I presume committees were formed, taste-testers were designated, and findings were discussed in weekly staff meetings.
But I suspect whoever was taking notes at the meeting where Brussels Sprouts were introduced either didn't hear the taste-tester correctly (since the poor schlub was probably still gagging from the taste), or simply made a typo with the hammer and chisel (or finger-paints, or whatever it was cavemen used to take the minutes of these meetings - my highly trained team of archaeological experts aren't terribly fussy about trivial details like that).
At any rate, somebody screwed up. But - in behavior that pervades to this day in Corporate America - nobody was willing to own up to the mistake. Nobody wanted to take the blame for calling those little green turds food.
Yes, we are victims of a cover-up so insidiuous, so pervasive, so long-lived that it boggles the mind. But I say, let's move on. Let's forget trying to assign blame. That's not important. The important thing is that it's not too late to put a stop to this lie, this act of culinary fraud that has been perpetrated and perpetuated (and probably some other impressive sounding P-word) for far too long.
It's time to stop the madness. Say NO to Brussels Sprouts. Get back to REAL food.
You know - Cheetos, Pringles, Twinkies. The classics.
And leave those verdant turdlets behind, closing once and for all a shameful chapter in the history of vegetables. Sure, we're scarred. But we can rebuild. And we can prevent mistakes like this from being made in the future, and in doing so, make life better for future generations. It's not too late to make a difference.
By the way, while my highly trained team of archaeological experts was conducting the typically exhaustive level of research that is the hallmark of the writings found at Hell Toupee, they happened across a highly apropos poem by an artist named Grandpa Tucker cleverly entitled No More B.S. (the B.S. referring, of course, to Brussels Sprouts).
Well said, Grandpa. Well said.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway?
(or, When Buller met Lytton)
In addition to my penchant for composing "elevator pitches" for books I've never written (and probably won't), I also have a predilection for bad first lines of imaginary books.
The abominable quality of these sentences - compounded by my apparently God-given ability to conceive them with little effort - may in some way relate to the fact that I have not to date been offered representation by any reputable literary agency. But maybe that's just a coincidence.
Anyway, having already created a sufficient quantity of ado, I submit the following:
In Other News
Offered as my proof that God does exist, Paris Hilton has expressed her plans to retire from public life. However, as proof that God can be cruel, Paris doesn't plan to do this for another two years. Oh, well. It's still a ray of hope for civilization.
The Daily Haiku
Waxing poetic about food today:
Recommended Reading
Millroy the Magician - Paul Theroux
Another out-of-print treasure, well worth tracking down
I mean, grass is edible, if the grazing habits of cattle (and sometimes the family dog) are any indication. So is Elmer's Glue - a fact which I proved conclusively in first grade. But do you want any grass on your salad? Any Elmer's in your coffee? I think not. So I have a bone to pick with whatever misguided caveman decided that Brussels Sprouts were food.
As near as my highly trained team of archaeological experts can determine, a big part of a caveman's workaday life was spent determining what you could and could not eat. Those had to be challenging times, wandering around in a loincloth, picking random leaves and berries in a gastronomical game of Russian Roulette. I presume committees were formed, taste-testers were designated, and findings were discussed in weekly staff meetings.
But I suspect whoever was taking notes at the meeting where Brussels Sprouts were introduced either didn't hear the taste-tester correctly (since the poor schlub was probably still gagging from the taste), or simply made a typo with the hammer and chisel (or finger-paints, or whatever it was cavemen used to take the minutes of these meetings - my highly trained team of archaeological experts aren't terribly fussy about trivial details like that).
At any rate, somebody screwed up. But - in behavior that pervades to this day in Corporate America - nobody was willing to own up to the mistake. Nobody wanted to take the blame for calling those little green turds food.
Yes, we are victims of a cover-up so insidiuous, so pervasive, so long-lived that it boggles the mind. But I say, let's move on. Let's forget trying to assign blame. That's not important. The important thing is that it's not too late to put a stop to this lie, this act of culinary fraud that has been perpetrated and perpetuated (and probably some other impressive sounding P-word) for far too long.
It's time to stop the madness. Say NO to Brussels Sprouts. Get back to REAL food.
You know - Cheetos, Pringles, Twinkies. The classics.
And leave those verdant turdlets behind, closing once and for all a shameful chapter in the history of vegetables. Sure, we're scarred. But we can rebuild. And we can prevent mistakes like this from being made in the future, and in doing so, make life better for future generations. It's not too late to make a difference.
By the way, while my highly trained team of archaeological experts was conducting the typically exhaustive level of research that is the hallmark of the writings found at Hell Toupee, they happened across a highly apropos poem by an artist named Grandpa Tucker cleverly entitled No More B.S. (the B.S. referring, of course, to Brussels Sprouts).
Well said, Grandpa. Well said.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway?
(or, When Buller met Lytton)
In addition to my penchant for composing "elevator pitches" for books I've never written (and probably won't), I also have a predilection for bad first lines of imaginary books.
The abominable quality of these sentences - compounded by my apparently God-given ability to conceive them with little effort - may in some way relate to the fact that I have not to date been offered representation by any reputable literary agency. But maybe that's just a coincidence.
Anyway, having already created a sufficient quantity of ado, I submit the following:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, which basically balanced things out, so that they were just okay times.
* * *
Not content with having invented the device that puts those multi-colored stripes in toothpaste, Lloyd's every waking hour was consumed with trying to create what for those in his line of work was considered the Holy Grail of dental hygiene: plaid toothpaste.
* * *
Myron had always felt that the truest way to express the love he felt for Bernice was by shaving her initials in his back hair.
* * *
Having successfully attached the message to its writhing form, Clyde sent the small animal on its way, musing as he wiped the blood from his hands that perhaps some other animal - pigeons, perhaps? - might make better couriers than porcupines.
In Other News
Offered as my proof that God does exist, Paris Hilton has expressed her plans to retire from public life. However, as proof that God can be cruel, Paris doesn't plan to do this for another two years. Oh, well. It's still a ray of hope for civilization.
The Daily Haiku
Waxing poetic about food today:
Citizens of Brussels, Hear Me!
No one can deny
Belgian waffles are the bomb.
But please, lose the sprouts.
Recommended Reading
Millroy the Magician - Paul Theroux
Another out-of-print treasure, well worth tracking down
