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A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I'll Take That as a Condiment

I was judged last night.

I know, you have every right to be blanched, facially speaking. I was, too, aghast and/or agog. What will no doubt stun you into a shocked silence is the additional fact that the source of this judging was none other than... (dun dun DUN...) my wife.

Yes, it's true, darling. Now, close your mouth before a reindeer poops into it. There's a good girl.

It is surprising, I acknowledge, to learn that even the stalwart Mrs. Apron has unfortunate tendencies that range from the sporadic flatulence to the felonious-equivalent of judging her husband, which I'm pretty sure she swore before a judge and jury at our wedding that she would not do.

"I will obey him with Christ-like reverence until such time as he sees fit to either reveal himself as fallible or ascend to Heaven at the wheel of a chassis-off-frame restored 1963 Volkswagen Beetle."

At least, I think that's what she said. It's been four years, you know. Who can remember all that shit? That's why I, in my infinite wisdom, invented the blogosphere.

In any event, in order to faithfully recreate the circumstances in which I was judged by my wife, I need to take you back a couple of weeks. My wife was invited to participate in a girl's night out, in celebration of a local female blogger who recently began a blog about the charming foibles of raising a child. It was an evening of estrogen-laden jollity, no doubt, featuring said blogger, her mother, grandmother, friends, and readers of her blog. They all met at a restaurant that opened recently several towns away and the gimmick of this particular haunt is that everything is centered around peanut butter-- peanut butter sandwiches with or without bacon, or avocado or what-have-you, peanut-butter-centered desserts, and, well, straight-up peanut butter-- in Bell jars. Homestyle, crunchy, smooth, or hazelnut.

Come and get it, while the peanuts are still fresh and the novelty's still quaint.

This event was not without its attendant embedded social awkwardness, however, for my wife, the venue was nothing short of perfect. She is of the opinion that people who have severe peanut allergies ruin the fun for everybody else and, thus, ought to be sterilized. And you thought I was crazy!

So, Mrs. Apron went to this shindig and returned with a glass jar filled with "Homestyle" peanut butter-- which is just that. No sugar. No partially-hydrogenated horseshit. Now, I don't like peanut butter-- I never have. Back in elementary school, when most of my peers were bringing peanut butter and/or jelly sandwiches on white bread for lunch, I was packing corned beef, high-end mustard, deli swiss on a challah roll. Why didn't I have friends again? Oh, and they called me "Paul Pfeiffer."

"I know you're annoying and you hate everything, but, seriously, you've got to try this shit," my wife said, in the enticing language I prefer best.

And I did. And it was awesomesauce.

It was so devine, in fact, that the very next weekend, I drove us out to this silly little place, with its peanut-shaped tables, and bought another jar to replenish our supply.

Last night, my wife and I were sschnuggled up on the couch together after a lovely, non-breastmilk-related engorgement of Indian food, I turned to Mrs. Apron and said, "You want something sweet, don't you?"

"Peanut butter bar, please," she said, referring to a homemade creation of ours. I returned with a bar for her and a jar for me. After I had inserted the fourth heaping spoonful of Homestyle peanut butter into my mouth, she turned to me and said,

"You are absolutely disgusting, do you know that?"

"Momndfpf?" I replied.

"That, sir, is a condiment-- meant to be used with something, like an apple, or Oreos, or celery. I looked at her, and reinserted my spoon into the jar, being sure to scoop some of the peanut schnork off the beveled sides of the jar.

"It's a condiment, like ketchup, or mustard, salad dressing, mayonnaise, or relish."

"So," I said, holding the spoon up to my mouth, "you're equating this practice with tipping my head back and spraying a heaping blork of Ranch dressing to my mouth?"

"Yes. I am," Mrs. Apron said.

As I relieved the spoon of any trace of peanut butter, I said, "Feeefaabmogcomminon."

Which, in non-peanut-butter-speak translates to, "I feel a blog coming on."


  1. You know, music is like a condiment squirted all over our collective ears. Dicey and Paprika -- a duo from Pittsburgh you should know about -- do this with messy glee. See this clip:

  2. Wow. You couldn't even get me wet with a little faux-compliment before shamelessly plugging your, um, band, on my blog?

    BAD TROLL! BAD! Go sit in the corner.


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