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.