ancona
Praying Mantis
For dinner.
That was the note on the table when I got home last evening. The wife went to some womens meeting so the kid and I had to go it alone for supper. 'OK, I said, I can handle that. The kid opted for tater tots and a Michelina's frozen whojmawatzit, but I couldn't stomach that so I waited for her to finish cooking it up and took my turn. I went to the 'fridge and stood there with both doors agape looking for some nutrition. Now let me explain, since we bought this fancy schmantzy new French door refrigerator, all it seems to have accomplished was to make more room for leftovers we aren't going to eat, because although the damn thing was full, I just couldn't seem to find anything that struck me as delicious.
After a few minutes of rooting around, I came across a Tupperware container that i vaguely remembered from the recent past. I popped it open and revealed the contents. MMMM! Sloppy Joes! What a score! Now, armed with my Sloppy Joe mix and two hamburger buns, I loaded a bowl with the mix and popped it in to the microwave for three minutes. It came out all bubbly and hot, and I spooned it generously over the two buns and made my way to my trusty Barcolounger to eat.
My first mistake here was not checking the date on the container, as I usually do when the wife is there to scold me to do so, and my second mistake was eating the fucking sandwich. Sure, they were five kinds of tasty, and they were hot and satisfying, but they were also loaded up with some kind of insidious bacteria that had been festering for what turns out to be five weeks in the cool darkness of my high tech refrigerator, just waiting for some dumbass to give them a nice warm new home in their intestinal tract.
Now I'm no authority on bacteria and I am most certainly not a doctor, but I am now an expert on gestation period and multiplication rate for whatever it was that I ate, and let me tell you right here and now, it’s fucking fast. By the time I went to bed my guts were rumbling a little bit, but nothing too uncomfortable. By around 1 a.m., I woke up with a cramp that felt more like a shotgun wound, and I launched out of bed, making my way to the ‘necessary room’.
You can guess the rest.
Well, 16 immodium later, my guts are somewhat calmed down, at least to the point where I’m not afraid I’m going to shit may pants anyway, but I am nauseous as hell and feel like I’ve been beaten with a sock full of marbles. I was completely amazed that the human body can continue to puke for hours after the last little bit of bile has spewed out of your mouth. I felt like I did six leventy thousand crunches.
The moral of this story boys and girls is to CHECK THE FUCKING DATES!
One would think that Mother Bear would have some sympathy right? WRONG! Mother Bear laughed her ever ‘lovin ass off when I told her what I had to eat, scolding me with, “What did I tell you….What did I say”?, “I told you to check the damn date dum-dum, and what did you do”? “You ate five week old poison and now you’re shitting yourself…..that’s what”. “Oh, and by the way………you can sleep on the pull-out in the living room as well…….nite-nite honey……love you…..[bedroom door closes]”
Flash forward to this morning. I wake up and stagger in to the kitchen where I decide to have a glass of water and oxygen for breakfast. It feels like I’ve been through a prize fight, only all the punches were gut shots, and the object of the fight was for my opponent to pull my digestive tract inside out.
I think I lost that fight.
That was the note on the table when I got home last evening. The wife went to some womens meeting so the kid and I had to go it alone for supper. 'OK, I said, I can handle that. The kid opted for tater tots and a Michelina's frozen whojmawatzit, but I couldn't stomach that so I waited for her to finish cooking it up and took my turn. I went to the 'fridge and stood there with both doors agape looking for some nutrition. Now let me explain, since we bought this fancy schmantzy new French door refrigerator, all it seems to have accomplished was to make more room for leftovers we aren't going to eat, because although the damn thing was full, I just couldn't seem to find anything that struck me as delicious.
After a few minutes of rooting around, I came across a Tupperware container that i vaguely remembered from the recent past. I popped it open and revealed the contents. MMMM! Sloppy Joes! What a score! Now, armed with my Sloppy Joe mix and two hamburger buns, I loaded a bowl with the mix and popped it in to the microwave for three minutes. It came out all bubbly and hot, and I spooned it generously over the two buns and made my way to my trusty Barcolounger to eat.
My first mistake here was not checking the date on the container, as I usually do when the wife is there to scold me to do so, and my second mistake was eating the fucking sandwich. Sure, they were five kinds of tasty, and they were hot and satisfying, but they were also loaded up with some kind of insidious bacteria that had been festering for what turns out to be five weeks in the cool darkness of my high tech refrigerator, just waiting for some dumbass to give them a nice warm new home in their intestinal tract.
Now I'm no authority on bacteria and I am most certainly not a doctor, but I am now an expert on gestation period and multiplication rate for whatever it was that I ate, and let me tell you right here and now, it’s fucking fast. By the time I went to bed my guts were rumbling a little bit, but nothing too uncomfortable. By around 1 a.m., I woke up with a cramp that felt more like a shotgun wound, and I launched out of bed, making my way to the ‘necessary room’.
You can guess the rest.
Well, 16 immodium later, my guts are somewhat calmed down, at least to the point where I’m not afraid I’m going to shit may pants anyway, but I am nauseous as hell and feel like I’ve been beaten with a sock full of marbles. I was completely amazed that the human body can continue to puke for hours after the last little bit of bile has spewed out of your mouth. I felt like I did six leventy thousand crunches.
The moral of this story boys and girls is to CHECK THE FUCKING DATES!
One would think that Mother Bear would have some sympathy right? WRONG! Mother Bear laughed her ever ‘lovin ass off when I told her what I had to eat, scolding me with, “What did I tell you….What did I say”?, “I told you to check the damn date dum-dum, and what did you do”? “You ate five week old poison and now you’re shitting yourself…..that’s what”. “Oh, and by the way………you can sleep on the pull-out in the living room as well…….nite-nite honey……love you…..[bedroom door closes]”
Flash forward to this morning. I wake up and stagger in to the kitchen where I decide to have a glass of water and oxygen for breakfast. It feels like I’ve been through a prize fight, only all the punches were gut shots, and the object of the fight was for my opponent to pull my digestive tract inside out.
I think I lost that fight.
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