Monthly Archives: February 2009

February 27, 2009 · 5:49 pm

Shovel-Ready Me

Dear Barack Obama,

Can I call you Barry? I mean, if we’re going to chat like best friends forever about my current state of well-being, we might as well be informal about it. Anyway, I heard you were a huge fan of my blog. Thanks. That’s sweet. I love you back. Since you’re down with Ober and Out, I thought I’d talk to you about the stimulus package, or the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009. But again, let’s dispense with formality. Let’s just call it “free money for Lauren.”  Since we’re besties, we can do that.

So I hear that you’re giving a lot of money away to people who need it, particularly to people who have “shovel-ready projects.” Ok, how can I get some of that chedda? Because I’ve got a few shovel-ready projects of my own that I’ve been holding off on since the economy’s been in the tank. I’ve even got my own damn shovel. Ok, who am I kidding? I’ve been holding off on them since my own economy has been in the tank, which has been since forever.

I thought since we’re buds and all, we could chat candidly about my economic stimulus needs. How’s about I give you a list of stuff I need and you can just get your people to toss me a little bit of that $800 billion? Great.

1. I need some cashola to save newspapers. They’re rapidly going the way of the dodo and since I work for one, I’d like not to see that happen. Newspapers are good. They tell people stuff, and like, whatever. So let’s get that going. You can start with my newsroom at the Burlington Free Press. We need a handful of editors, some news assistants and a smattering of other people who know how to do stuff. Mmm-K?

2. Let’s get onto what I need now. It’s not much, just…

a. a Herman Miller Aeron chair for my desk at work

b. two tickets to “9 to 5″ on Broadway

c. a cooler haircut

d. a gym membership

e. money so I can go back and see my headshrinker lady

f.  a new computer since mine pooped the bed

g. a dogwalker for the Ween

h. more sass (no link available)

i. a pair of high-top sneakers to round out my sneaker collection

j. a sweet Pontiac Vibrator. Oh wait, I already have one. Yes, me!

k. a personal massager (up to interpretation)

l. karate lessons (why not?)

m. my student loans paid off

n. my own private island

All of those are shovel-ready and will help stimulate the economy. In fact, if I get a cool new haircut and karate lessons, I’m pretty sure that all the world’s banks will start lending again. I will single-handedly melt the credit freeze just by having my own private island. And of course a staff of 20 to man the estate that I will build on said island. No need to thank me, Barry. I’m here to help.

I’m just saying, if you have money to burn, thanks to the Chinese and the Japanese who now own us, why not toss a little my way? I need to be economically stimulated as much as the next schmo and then some.

Since we’re having this little heart to heart, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I think you’re doing a great job and all that, but I’m worried for you, in a sartorial sense. Ever since you jumped on the campaign trail, you’ve been wearing nothing but red and blue ties, navy suits and white dress shirts. BO-ring. On your casual days, you lose the jacket and tie, toss on some chinos and you’re good to go. But here’s the deal- you look like a…Republican. The presidential uniform of the last eight years should have been dropped as soon as 43 said sayonara and took off on Marine One on that glorious day in January.What’s wrong with a green tie here or a blue shirt there? How about a little tattersall? Maybe some regimental stripes. Honestly, Barry, you’re a good-looking guy, you’ve got a hot wife with killer arms who’s making herself into quite the fashion muse and you’ve got two little style mavens in the making at home. Why dress like a dowdy “patriot?” If you need an example of a well-dressed politician, see photo below:

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Burlington prog city counselor Clarence Davis, straight from the haberdashery.

And honestly, what is with the American flag pins? Are you under some contractual agreement to never be seen without one? Are you in bed with a pin manufacturer? If I become president, am I going to have to wear those reee-donculous pins? If so, I ain’t bein’ president. No thanks.

Sorry we got a little off topic. This was supposed to about my needs and I’ve gone on about you for two paragraphs now. Let’s bring it back to me. In summary, I need some stuff, too. I need a financially solvent industry, a liveable wage, a personal trainer and I need Ben & Jerry’s to make an ice cream that doesn’t make me fat. Can you do all that for me? If not, why did I even bother voting for you?

Yours in need,

Lauren Ober

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February 24, 2009 · 12:52 am

Lyman Orton, I Salute You

Dear best friends forever,

I know I’m a bit of a johnny-come-lately to this whole Vermont Country Store sells dildos drama, but I was on furlough which means that I was contractually obligated not to do any work for a week. For me, this meant not paying attention to the news, or really anything for that matter, like my increasing girth or that weird red hair growing out of my neck. So as a result of my work embargo, I didn’t realize that a scandal was abrewing just south of us in Weston, Vt., home of the precious Vermont Country Store. 

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Oooh, look at all the soaps.

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Yes! FLANNEL!

If you’re one of the small percentage of people who does not find the local TV news riveting and essential (smirk!), then you may have missed the story. Apparently, the Vermont Country Store, an institution of Yankee thriftiness and marketing geniuosity, has started selling sex toys. We’re not talking about ben-wa balls or nipple clamps or anything exotic. We’re talking about vanilla vibrators, or “intimate massagers” as they’re called on the Vermont Country Store Web site.

So apparently people have their granny-size panties in a twist about these new items at the VCS. As the local TV news reported, the “adult” products are located “not far” from the stuffed animals and games. How far is not far? Three feet, 300 feet? That’s some brilliant reportage right there. Anyway, people are angry as heck about this and they’re not going to take it. They’re going to boycott the VCS. Guess that means they’re going to have to get their lollipop unmentionables,  their corduroy jumpers and their ankle-length muumuus somewhere else. Pity.

Personally, I think the VCS stocking sex toys is the most brilliant idea ever. We’ve all got bits and most of us like to use them occasionally.  Why not make it easy for people to use their bits? Lyman Orton, the proprietor of the VCS, stands behind his decision to carry vibrators and g spot enlarging gel and and weird hair dye to help you “say goodbye to gray in your most private of areas.” Ok, who knew that was something I had to worry about in the future? 

Anyway, here’s what Lyman Orton had to say about the “Intimate Solutions” situation:

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(Ok, tell me that doesn’t look like Dr. Ruth and Bill Clinton are shacking up in that picture.)

They’re not messing around at the Vermont Country Store. They’re not offering some cheap Taiwanese knock-offs- they’re offering the real sex toy deal. They’ve got a Hitachi Wonder Wand and a Vibratex Rabbit, both at a major discount from larger adult toy purveyors, not that I’d know who those are.  According to an inside source at VCS, business is brisk with the “intimate solutions.” Folks are ordering them the way high school boys would buy condoms at the pharmacy- they order a few jars of strawberry rhubarb jam, a pair of rag wool slipper socks, some rooster salt and pepper shakers, a wool beret and a chambray smock, oh and a, um, uh, #51438. They’ve dropped $300 on stuff they’re never going to use when all they really wanted was the Laya German personal massager. 

Why I didn’t think of this before is beyond me- an adult toy store for seniors. And by adult toys I don’t mean snowmobiles or motorboats. As the baby boomers lose their teeth and become incontinent, they might not be able to find anyone who wants to make out with them. So they need a little help in that department. That’s where Lusty Lauren’s Lair of Lasciviousness would come in. If the Vermont Country Store can do it, then so can I. 

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February 23, 2009 · 7:04 pm

Furlough A-Go-Go

Dear human beings who are my friends,

I’m sorry to have scared you. I know I should have told you where I was. It’s not safe to go away without letting someone know of your whereabouts. Well, all two of you reading this can breath a sigh of relief this glorious Monday because I have returned. Where was I, you asked? I was on furlo (the ugh at that end of the word really is gratuitous). Or furluff if you’re not so good with vocabulary. If you’re in a fairly solvent industry like pornography or Internet wizardry, you might not know what a furlough is. I’ll tell you. A furlough is where you get to take a fabulous staycation to your luxe living room for a week while your job doesn’t pay you. It’s like vacation time only without the vacation or the wages. Sounds awesome, right? Right.

So a furlough is the new black. (This is how I know I’m losing my grip- that I just used the phrase “blah blah blah is the new black.”) All the cool companies are doing it. It’s a way of not passing out the pink slips. I guess I’m down with that. I’d rather take a week without pay than a year or more standing in the breadline.

I know you’re all desperate to know how I spent my furlough so I won’t tarry in my description of the awesomeness that ensued. First, I performed in the Drag Ball on Valentine’s Day evening. Then I went to the Adirondacks. Then I went to the post office and the FedEx. Then I went to Florida. Then I came home. Then I went to Montpelier. Then I went to Smuggs. Then I went to Sugarbush. Then I came in to work. It’s was pretty action-packed, so I’ll just give you the highlights.

My sweetie is the nation of Florida at the moment, so I took part of my freebie week off to go have a visit. Sweet god do I love Florida. With all the anti-abortion billboards and Baptist churches, it’s totally my kind of place. But I’m confused about something. According to one anti-abortion billboard I saw, a fetus’s heart begins beating at 18 days. Another billboard about a mile away said a fetus’s heart starts beating at 21 days. Is it 18 days or is it 21? I’ve got to know because that’s going to make the difference in whether I get an abortion or not. If anybody knows the answer to this, I’d love to hear it.

Anyway, so Florida is filled with people who love god, hate abortions and feel ambivalent about recycling. We had to collect our bottles and cans so we could bring them back to Vermont since there were no recycling bins in Orlando. Take that, Bill McKibben! You’re not the only one who loves the planet.

While we were perambulating around Orlando, we saw a church complex that spanned a city block the size of Delaware. This church had a school attached to it and outside the school was a caravan of champagne-colored SUVS driven by perfectly coiffed moms waiting to pick up their kiddies. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why these moms needed these SUVS. I didn’t see any snow in Florida, nor did I see any mountains. The roads weren’t dimpled with Lake Okeechobee-sized potholes and there didn’t seem to be any debris that needed to be driven over, so why the need for the huge honking car? I know this is a stupid question, and one that’s asked by every earth-loving, homespun clothing-wearing, hybrid car-driving neo-yippy who’s ever waggled a finger at someone feeding their kid a McDonalds Happy Meal. I know it’s not about NEED; it’s about entitlement. Because these people pray to Jesus and don’t get abortions, they have a right to drive these ridiculous cars that have now become Detroit’s biggest miscalculation. I dig it. That’s why I’m going to find me a megachurch pronto, bang a tamborine, squeeze my eyelids tight and shezam!- no more Pontiac Vibrator for me. No more 35mpg for me. Heck no. My new ride (preferably an Abrams battle tank)  is gonna guzzle enough oil to pay for the completion of Dubai’s Disneyfication.

But I seriously digress. This is supposed to be about my furlough, not about the fundamental differences between Vermont and Florida. Bo-ring. So let’s sum up the rest of my trip to Florida- Mexican food, Cuban food, bad gas, mountain biking sans mountains, billboards, rain, shopping, getting lost. Then I came home. I flew on JetBlue and I’m now officially in love with everyone who works for them. What a sensational airline. They’ve got some serious sass, which is always appreciated. During a final boarding call, the gate agent called into the intercom “We love you, we need you, but we won’t hesitate to leave you.” Genius.

But alas, my furlough has come to an end. My mandatory week off of work without pay ended with a banging Oscar costume party in which I won the award for “Best Chaps.” See photo below:
blog post photo
(My outfit for the “Pajamas with Flair” competition was inspired by Calamity Jane- a union suit, or in this case a fleece adult onesie, with chaps, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat and a big belt buckle. So hot.)

Now I’m back to work and apparently making money. Until the next furlough.

ps- Big up to the Culture Buddies for my Oscar costume award.

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February 13, 2009 · 6:42 pm

The World’s Second Worst Dog Owner

Dear jagoff who left his dog in the car while he went skiing at Smuggs on Sunday,

First, let me say that you are a jerk and I rue the day you were born. Secondly, I wish that something wretched befall you, like rickets or anal fissures. I would say I wish unemployment and foreclosure on you, but then you’ll get a sliver of the economic stimulus package, part deux, and I don’t want you to get anything because if you’ve forgotten, I hate you.

jagoff2

This is a jagoff.

It’s possible that you don’t know to what I am referring, so I will kindly refresh your memory because I’m nice like that. On Sunday, it was spitting rain and generally pretty junky weather, so my friend Macmo and I decided to go snowboarding at Smuggs. I love nothing more than slushy runoff when I’m riding, so Sunday seemed like a great day to head to the mountains.

As we pulled my sick Pontiac Vibrator into the upper parking lot, we saw you, in your oversized black ski jacket and saggy pants, throwing a stick for your lovely little yellow Lab. I thought it odd at the time that a dog would be up at the ski resort and I mentioned it to Macmo. He was too busy brushing his long blonde hair to hear what I said so I let it rest. Perhaps you worked at the mountain, I said to myself, and you were bringing your dog along with you. Awww, how sweet.

After Macmo and I got beautiful and were ready to shred the gnar, we saw you walking away from your stupid champagne-colored Toyota RAV-4, sans dog. I growled to Macmo that that dog better not be in the car. But just as I said that, the pooch popped up from the backseat and I could see his head through the window. My blood began to boil. My eyes bugged out. I might have given myself a hemorrhoid from the strain. I couldn’t believe someone would leave their dog in the car on a 30-degree day while they went skiing.

I reasoned that maybe you would just take a few turns and then rescue the dog from his vehicular cage. That let me enjoy the day of ice riding with Macmo without worrying about whether or not your dog was cold, thirsty, sad, lonely, etc.- all the things you might be if some b-hole left you locked in a car for hours. When Macmo and I returned to the parking lot more than four hours later, I saw your car and started seething. You didn’t just take a few quick turns, unless you’re the world’s worst skier. You were out there the whole day, scraping all the decent snow off the runs as your eked your way down the hill.

I made Macmo go check your stupid car to see if the dog was still in there. He gave me a nod and I lost it. All I could think of was the story of the World’s Worst Dog Owner, the Montreal man who left his poodle, Michou, in his car in the Burlington Airport parking lot for three weeks in January. The dog didn’t eat or drink for 19 days and was at death’s door when Burlington Animal Control found him. The Canuck gave up custody of the dog and if I was mistress of the universe, I would demand that you do the same. You, sir, are a disgrace. If that sweet yellow Lab could talk, he’d say the same thing. And he’d probably say that I was awesome and that my car had mad steez.

So I suggest that if you’re one of the three people who reads this blog, you would take the following advice- unless your dog can ski or snowboard (preferably wearing doggles and a helmet) leave him at home. And if he can’t be left alone because he’ll pee all over your shantytown apartment, then maybe you shouldn’t go skiing. Or maybe you just shouldn’t have a dog in the first place.

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February 6, 2009 · 9:42 pm

Of Powder and Pantloads

Dear Digidiary,

I’m sorry it’s taken me more than a week to tell you about my recent trip to Sugarbush. It took that long for my underwear to dry out. Last week during our littler dumperoo of snow, I was invited to Sugarbush to check out their newest attraction, the 12-passenger Pisten Bully snowcat. JJ Toland, the PR whiz up at Sugarbush called me up and said “You wanna catch some first tracks tomorrow?” At first I thought he was talking about heroin or possibly the record industry, but I quickly realized he meant skiing in luscious powder before any of the poor paying slobs got a crack at it. I said I’d go, knowing full well that I don’t know the first thing about snowboarding in powder. I learned how to ski on the ice flows that double as ski slopes in Western Pennsylvania so powder is as foreign to me as indoor plumbing is to Africans. Needless to say I was a little nervous.

The GF and me got up at 5 a.m. so that we could leave by 5:30 a.m. to get to Sugarbush by 6:30 a.m. We didn’t want to miss the first cat run up the mountain. But that’s exactly what happened. For some reason, dragging my sad bones out of bed at that unchristly hour was harder than I anticipated. We left later than we expected and once on I-89 drove about 40 miles an hour due to the snow squalls created by the 18-wheelers doing mach- a billion past me. By the time we finally got to Sugarbush, my nerves were frayed and we hadn’t even gone up the mountain. And of course we were late.

The snowcat had left without us. I suppose the old adage “No friends on a powder day” is right. So much for the whole day. Ruined. Until we saw the honkin’ huge snowcat bomb down Spring Fling and come to a skid stop right in front of us. Mississippi, the driver, hopped out, clearly a little bit proud of his tactical maneuver and loaded up the skis. We were hustled into the cat quickly so the paying guests didn’t miss any precious powder.

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This is a snowcat.

At the top of Snowball, the cat dropped us off and John Egan, Sugarbush’s resident brah, pointed us in the direction of Stein’s Run, a double black diamond. Egan says to me “So you’re looking for some steep untracked powder runs, eh?” Uh, what gave him that impression. I never said that. I was just along for the ride. I happened to bring my snowboard along so I would look legit. I said to him “If by steep you mean a one percent grade, then yes, gimme some steep sh*t.” Hahaha, hilarious. No really, don’t take me on that double black was all I could think of. I had visions of cartwheeling down the mountain, my motionless body, minus my arms and legs, which no doubt would have been ripped off during the tumble, coming to rest in front of the Superbravo lift just as people were starting to line up. No thanks, pal.

Egan offered me a different route, right in front of all these other sick powderhounds. I could see their thought bubbles calling me out for being a ridiculous wimp. In fact, I am, but that’s beside the point. I couldn’t go down a wimpy run, so Stein’s it would be. At least if I fell, it wouldn’t hurt. That’s how I rationalized my decision to try a run I was woefully underprepared for.

“You know the best way to ski powder,” Egan bellowed. “First!”

Uh, yeah right dude. I’m all about bringing up the rear.

The first few turns I made were quasi-successful, meaning I didn’t eat it. Then just as I was getting into some sort of rhythm, I lost my balance and went tumbling. My pants filled with snow, as did the airholes in my helmet. I spent the rest of the morning trying to recover. We did three more runs like that and gradually I got used to riding in powder. I get why people love it. I also get why people don’t wear parkas when they’re skiing. I basically had sweatmarks on the pits of my polyfill jacket from all the work it took to dig myself out of snow mounds. But it was worth it.

The next day I felt like I had been bludgeoned with a sockful of quarters. My virtually non-existent oblique and abdominal muscles did not appreciate being awoken from their 10+ year hibernation. But no doubt if I could do it again I would.

If you want to know the details of snowcat skiing at Sugarbush, check out my story in Saturday’s Free Press. Also check out the video. Word.

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· 6:13 pm

Stuck Between a Sub Shop and a Hairy Bear

Dear people who are gay and/or people who like to hang out with gay people,

Word on the street is that there’s a new gay joint in town. I got this little nugget of news from a very reputable source- my own little personal idea fairy. The idea fairy told me that shoehorned in between the Quizno’s and the dubiously named “Hairy Bear” children’s hair salon on Williston Rd. in South Burlington, is a space that is being turned into a gay bar. This would surely be welcome news for the aforementioned people in the salutation.

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This is Quiznos.

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This is a hairy bear.

Since Burlington’s only gay bar, 135 Pearl, became a greasy pizza joint more than two years ago, the gays and the friends of the gays have had no place to get their dance on. Once a month, there has been a gay-themed dance party at Higher Ground, but increasingly it’s become more just gay-friendly. Heaps of breeders come to dance and watch the shirtless, sweaty boys shake it to Madonna. Oh, I’m sorry. I was having flashbacks to my time in the Village. Ok, who am I fooling? I’ve never been to A village, let alone THE Village. But I digress.

Since the idea fairy dropped this little pellet in my lap, I’ve been curious about whether the rumor was true. So I hopped in my super awesome Pontiac Vibrator and headed over to SoBu. I drove around the parking lot for a good seven minutes looking like a total narc before I found the space the idea fairy alluded to. It was non-descript like gay bars used to be back in the day when a popular Friday night drinking game was “Smear the Queer.” The windows were frosted over with some sort of black paint and there was no sign out front. I parked in front and walked up to the door. I peaked in through a hole in the black frosting and saw the makings of a bar- high tables and stools, sound equipment and a bar, oddly. The few people inside looked my way, at which point I hopped in the ‘Rator and took off. And by took off I mean that I gunned the sick four-cylinder engine and got zero to 60 in about 10 minutes.

Anyway, word on the street has it that the place will be called “Dorothy’s”- a shout-out no doubt to gay icon and mother of a Liza with a Z not Lisa with an S, Judy Garland- and that its soft launch is tonight. If that’s the case, methinks they’ve got a lot of work to do, unless their theme is “dive bar that got foreclosed on.” Its soft launch corresponds with First Friday, the gay-friendly dance night at Higher Ground. Coincidence? Yeah, probably.

UPDATE- So the place isn’t called Dorothy’s after all. Apparently the idea fairy got some bunk information. It’s actually called Two Friends Bistro, which is infinitely less catchy than Dorothy’s. Whatevs. At midnight it was pretty much cleared out, so either it attracts an early-to-bed crowd or people went to the dance party instead.

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· 12:16 pm

The Dulcet Tones of Snow Removal

Dear Digidiary,

My goodness, gracious it’s a frackin’ awesome day to be alive. Specifically in my neck of the wilderness. You see, today is the day when Burlington Department of Public Works gets off its fat duff and cleans my street. Last night I was alerted to this supremely awesome turn of events by little yellow signs stuck in the snow hillocks outside my house. This morning at oh-late-hundred hours, I awoke to the dulcet tones of dueling beeps, signaling the snow removal had begun. Huzzah!

So here’s my theory as to why they’re removing the snow now as opposed to two or three weeks ago. A couple days ago a rescue crew arrived on our street (not an uncommon occurrence, as I am often beating people to bloody pulps in my neighborhood). And by arrived on our street I mean that it got about an eighth of the way down the one-way street before the snarl of cars scuttled its efforts to proceed to the party in need.

Apparently having cars parked on either side of the street makes it impossible for any vehicle bigger than a Smart Car (see ridiculous Euro photo below) to pass without risking that the rearview mirrors will be sheared off.

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Tight squeeze.

On the night that the rescue crew couldn’t reach its victim, my neighbor knocked on my door. She was all like “Can you move your car? The ambulance has to get through.” And I was all like “Um, I’m in my pajamas already.” And she was all like “Well, could you move the car in your pajamas? The ambulance can’t get through.” And I was all like “Well, I’m pretty comfy lying on the couch in my p-jammers. Maybe you could find someone else to move their car.” And she was all like “Lauren, one of our neighbors is dying down the street. You need to move your car now!” And I was all like “Uh, I don’t think you can die from hemorrhoids.” And she was all like “I hate you Ginger Devil!” And I was all like “Whatever, pregnant lady. Or are you just really fat?”

Anyway, the long of the short of it is that I did in fact move my car, but it turns out that the ambulance didn’t even move from its spot four houses up from the alleged victim. So basically I had to run outside in my pink flannel pajamas for nothing. So lame.

So that’s what I think prompted this snow removal situation today.

Like I mentioned before, my street is a one-way street. It’s maybe about the length of a football field, if the football field was for pygmies. And yet the snow removal firepower out on the street this very second would rival the snow removal program of any major city south of the Mason Dixon line. At the moment there are four huge plow trucks idling on a side street, two front loaders working my street like sassy little harlots and a little Bobcat skid-steer loader that is suffering from a major inferiority complex around all those monster trucks. See photographic masterworks below:

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Front loader pushing snow. Riveting.

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Two vehicles consorting.

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Gas-guzzlers spewing toxic greenhouse gases. Take that, Bill McKibben!

As I write this, the backing up beeping has ceased. Oh wait, no there it goes again. Maybe they were on a tea break.

Needless to say, I’m pretty bleeping excited about this new turn of events on my street. We have long been ignored by the DPW and it’s about time they recognize us. Now if the city would only do something about the two treacherous blind spots at the end of the street, I’d be a happy kid.

Oh, and a video, just because I love you:

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February 2, 2009 · 4:18 pm

Jesus Crust and Other Historical Figures

Dear best friend(s),

I owe you a thousand apologies. I’ve only got a couple hundred to offer, so you’ll have to hold out for the rest. I’m sorry a million times over for not writing since the ascension of Barack Hussein Obama to the U.S. throne of destiny. Once he was elected, I momentarily lost my mind and stopped these little blog ditties. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I thought Barry would call me up and ask me to be his personal scribe/muse/jester. But alas, all the appointments have been made. All the nominees have been confirmed and I’m still here in Burlington whacking words on the page for our three subscribers to read. Oh well.

Lots has happened since I last wrote. Where to begin? Well, Christmas happened. I got two pairs of pajamas bottoms and three bread knives. What, I like bread?! Then I went home to Pittsburgh for a Steeler game. Once in the stadium, I lost my ticket, preventing me from taking my rightful seat in the club level. I did not, however, lose my brother’s ticket and he watched the game from the club level while I cried to customer service. Then New Year’s Eve happened. I went to a small dance party and wore a new velveteen jacket. Then… I went to Africa.

After much hemming and hawing about whether or not I’d catch Ebola if I went to Africa, I finally booked a trip to Mali to visit my bestie, Racey, who works over there making sure thirsty people have enough to drink. Flipping do-gooders. Anyway, I went to Mali (with a little side trip to Morocco) and got mad sick. It was pretty awesome being hundreds of miles from a hospital sweating to the oldies with a raging 104-degree fever. In my more lucid hours, I thought to myself, “The middle of the Sahara is an awesome place to die of cholera. I’m so lucky I’m here.”

Luckily, I didn’t die, as is evidenced by the fact that I am writing this prehumously. I did, however, lose 15 pounds and expose myself to Racey while being examined by the French docteur who came to my rescue. Dr. Rico, je n’oublierai jamais que vous. Or something foreign like that.

Upon my return, I relapsed. The bacteria that had taken up residence in my intestinal system apparently began building a mammoth addition onto its McMansion. They were rumbling around like crazy in my gut and as a result, I couldn’t be farther than two and a half feet from the loo for days. I practically pitched a tent in the tub. My American doc put me on the kiddie B.R.A.T. diet and now I never want to eat toast or rice or any other white food again. I missed a week of work, but now I’m back. Lucky you, lucky me.

While I was gone I missed a couple big things. One was the announcement that all Free Press employees had to take furloughs. That means a week off without pay. Since I’m independently wealthy, this isn’t a big deal for me. I’ll probably spend my week off lazing about on the shores of Mustique with Mick Jagger, Kate Moss and that super dreamboat Prince William. I’m sorry for all those poor slobs I work with who will have to go through the hassle of trying to collect unemployment during their furlough week. Suckers!

So I missed the furlough announcement, but more importantly I missed the grand opening of Jesus Crust Superstar, Vermont’s first grilled cheese bar and soup kitchen. Despite my attempts to move into the vacated kiosk across the street from the Free Press, the Church St. Marketplace decided to grant a lease to the folks who run the Garden of Eatin’ cafe at the Williston Gardener’s Supply Company. Ok, so it’s not called Jesus Crust Superstar. It’s actually even worse than that. It’s Cheese ‘N Crust Souperstar. Every time I walk by it I sing “Jesus Crust Superstar/ Do you think you’re what they say you are?” I haven’t been tempted to eat there because I’m quite happy with my other soup and sandwich options in town. But because I’m an intrepid journalist always searching out the truth, and a tasty sandwich, I decided to try it today. And what a terrible decision that was. Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber would be ashamed.

I ordered the soup and grilled cheese combo for $7.50 with tax. I thought since it was called a “soup kitchen” my lunch would be free. Alas. I got the roasted garlic potato cream soup and a grilled cheese with mozzarella and basil pesto. I would have gotten it on wheat bread, but they were out so I had to settle with white bread (ahhh, white food. The nightmare!) It took them about two minutes to make the grilled cheese and it took me about one and half minutes to make to up to my office. By the time I peeled the foil wrapper off the grilled cheese, I had a soggy greasy mess to deal with. The sandwich wasn’t cut and it lay limp in my hands. It tasted as if the bread was dunked in olive oil and then nuked for 47 seconds.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten mozzarella in the sandwich. I know better. Cheddar or Jack only in a grilled cheese. Maybe Swiss if I’m feeling adventurous. But mozz is already a disaster waiting to happen. And by disaster I mean almost certain death. Every time I eat hot mozzarella, I nearly choke to death. A number of servers at Sneakers might remember the unfortunate incident a couple of years ago when I got a piece of the cheese lodged in the back of my throat and had to stick my entire hand down there to retrieve it.

Anyway, the long of the short of this is that I was massively underwhelmed by the kiosk fare. A side note- I also feel bad for the folks who work there, not just because they have to work at such an embarrassingly named joint, but because it doesn’t seem like the awesomest work environment. There’s about three inches of space to move around in there and that three inches of space has to be shared by two full-size humans. I’d probably rather work as an elephant poop collector at the zoo than in the kiosk.

Well, thanks for reading. I hope this wasn’t the crappest thing you’ve ever skimmed over. I’m out of practice. Also, the fever zapped my cleverness. Yeah, that’s it. Oh well. There are worse things. Like cholera.

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