Our Bacon
Who art in heaven
Smoked be thy Name
Thine order come
Thine will be well-done
On earth as it is
In Memphis
Give us this day our daily slab
And lead us not into vegetarianism
But deliver us more bacon
For swine is the skillet, the flavor, and the pork belly
Forever and ever
HAM-en.
A few of us made this up a while back, and I just found it on my hard drive.
Last night The Rudies opened for The (English) Beat, and during their set I sent a text message to the older of my older brothers, the one whose utter coolness, along with early MTV, helped mold my musical tastes.
Me: We are about to see the english beat. Wish you were here..
Nate: Can u save it for later?
Me: Lol. Don't think so. I just can't stop it.
Nate: Roger. It ranks right up there. Specially when im wakeling up.
Me: Every saturday when you're window shopping? By the way, have you met jeannette?
OK, so maybe he and I found it funny, and you don't or won't. But if you are a fan of the Beat, I hope you'll get a chuckle out of it.
A dog limps into a saloon, holding one leg off the ground gingerly and says "I'm lookin' for the man...who shot my paw."
Don't ask me why I drug* out my high school yearbooks. It might have something to do with Facebook. *Yeah, I know it's not standard English.
While right now I'm too lazy to scan any pages and post images to teh internets, I somehow have enough time to type a gem or two from the signatures I got, spelling and grammatical errors intact.
From the 1984 yearbook. This was my freshman year, and some of you reading this might not have even been born yet. BWAH!
I can only imagine which Heather it was, which doesn't guarantee that a photo of her in her bra would be a good thing.
I'm sure Doug went on to make an impression in his new school. He was a loudmouth, a popular one, and I'm surprised he signed my yearbook.
Whoa, a senior signed my yearbook! *gasp* OK, it's only because he sat next to me in Spanish (wait, why was a senior in my Spanish class? He wasn't the only one). You know, because otherwise I was the scum of the bucket! And yeah, our teacher wore some crazy outfits.
And one more:
It's true, I used to giggle in a way that might remind some of Woody Woodpecker, not that I had the melody down or anything. In 8th grade, Doug V. told me I "laugh like a rabbit," whatever that means. I no longer laugh like that. And I NEVER cheated on a Science test, at least not until Chemistry in 11th grade.
None of this is cringeworthy, and I can't find my teenage diaries (I think I may have burned them), but it is a slice of life. And right now it's all I've got for this place.
I tell ya, this place is teeming with people, conversations, and things that make me laugh. Case in point:
The guy in front of me in line was buying a huge honkin' bottle of bourbon...and a pint of Listerine.
Cashier, to the person buying Tucks medicated pads and Preparation H:
"So, are you getting ready for a busy holiday?"
Regarding my last post, I just have to say that this peanut butter Allan bought has ALL the fat. I mean, it's peanuts and salt, people. Peanuts and salt.
Peanuts. Salt.
So it's not low-fat by any means (although it's devoid of partially hydrogenated oils, i.e. trans fats). It just doesn't have any extra sugar or, um, trans fats. Or anything else.
It's peanuts. Mmmm. Peanuts. And salt. Mmmm. Salt.
There are those inexplicable things, those "you had to be there" moments in life, and most of the time they don't translate well to the written word. It is with this disclaimer that I am going to attempt to relate our lunch last Friday.
Allan and I were on our way to Pittsburgh for the weekend, and we chose to drive across route 64 to Charleston, West By God Virginia, then up route 79 to my hometown. We can drive up route 75 to 71 and halfway across Ohio to route 70, then across the other half of Ohio, through the West Virginia panhandle to Washington, PA, then up route 79 for 50 or so miles — but as I've written here before, Ohio will suck the soul right out of you, no matter which way you cross it.
So eastward on route 64 it was. We decided to stop for lunch close to Charleston, because beyond it on 79 there's not much happening except for mountainous curves and more mountainous curves until you get to the "Hi-Tech Corridor" of Clarksburg and Morgantown.
We were hungry by the time we crossed over into West Virginia, and we decided to stop at the Shoney's in Huntington. It sits next to a Golden Corral, but we thought we'd keep our Golden Corral eating record at zero, so Shoney's it was.
Lunch at Shoney's in Huntington, West Virginia.
Dinner at Seviche in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Our Bacon, who art in Bacon,
Bacon be thy Bacon.
Thy Bacon come.
Thy Bacon be done,
On Bacon as it is in Bacon.
Give us this Bacon our daily Bacon.
And Bacon us our Bacon,
As we Bacon those who Bacon against us.
And Bacon us not into Bacon,
But Bacon us from Bacon.
For thine is the Bacon,
and the Bacon, and the Bacon,
for Bacon and Bacon.
Bacon
Special thanks to MBE, who made this up.
"We're just following ancient history," she said, adamantly.
I called my kids today. Neither seemed too interested in talking to me, so I asked my son:
"You don't want to talk right now?"
And he said, "No, Mom. I don't have time to talk right now."
There was a football* game happening in the cul-de-sac, see.
*soccer
Two winners, actually.
Tiffany suggested that "Your Halloween costume is to be 1/2 man, 1/2 woman, and lefty is hangin' with the Y chromosome."
I like the way you think, Tiffany! You're also the closest to the truth.
AndreAnna wrote " You need your left hand because it is trained in some secret martial
art in which you can choke/maim/mutilate a man twice your size and
nails get in the way."
And that made me laugh.
So they both win a prize. I've sent them an e-mail about it, and should they accept what I have to give, I'll let all y'all know what it is.
The real story about the fingernails is after the jump.
My nephew, S., had to call his mom. He was at our family's "little house" with my kids and another cousin. They'd all traipsed through the woods and across the creek crick to get from S's house to the little house, and stood around the phone with their muddy feet and legs.
I asked S., who's two days shy of his 8th birthday, if he knew how to dial the phone. He knew his phone number, but not how to operate the solid black hulk in front of him. So he said no, and my son piped up, "I know! Mom? Can I dial?"
The three other cousins watched me and my son as I dictated the number and he placed his index finger in the proper holes, carefully pulling the dial and his finger toward the metal stop.
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