Suffering Succotashes

Our clan's Thanksgiving feast is always a treat, especially when I get to watch vaguely familiar carnivores I haven't seen since last November rip apart and devour a champion turkey, who probably had better things to do.

"Why is there Stovetop Stuffing in the eggplant?"
Celebrating my 15th Thanksgiving as a vegetarian, I undertook 30 minutes of table glory in a brisk, skillful clip, chomping and slurping around the meat and fowl. I was blessed to scarf down enough food and fizzy pop to transport me into bend-over cramps nirvana.

When I get cramps, moan for a cot, and stupor my way into assorted in-laws and chives, I know I'm the happy guest -- usually at the moment I pass out on the poodle and mutter disparagements at the umbrella urn.

What was delightful to the banqueting tongue? Succotash. Donna made succotash and so did Lynn. My wife's recipe is secret, but nobody reads this, so I'll share it with you. She mixes kernels of corn with lima beans.

I guess that explains why Lynn's succotash, although tasty, was different. I pulled her aside and discovered her recipe calls for mixing lima beans with kernels of corn. Ahhhh, hahhhh! Yes, nuances make the cheffff.

For the remainder of this holiday weekend, I'll be finishing the succotash and three leftover casseroles. There's a brocolli and rice casserole, a brocolli and rice casserole, and a brocolli and rice casserole. I'm eating a brocolli and rice casserole sandwich as I type. What I did was: improvise in the kitchen. Two pieces bread, brocolli, rice. It's yummy, but could use some more and.

Later, we're having broccoli and rice casserole soup for dinner, broccoli and rice casserole a la mode for dessert and, then, for snacking, hot, melted broccoli and rice casserole popcorn while we watch some James Bond movies -- good ones produced by Cubby Broccoli.

Tomorrow morning, as soon as I consume Lucky Charms with tiny bits of broccoli and rice casserole ("It's vegically delicious!"), a broccoli and rice casserole omelet, and hash browns, scattered, smothered, covered, riced, broccolied, casseroled, I plan to start whining with diligence until I get a change of diet. Before Saturday is done, my friend, I shall be pigging on brocolli and rice casserole s'mores!


State of the Mike

"Good morning, Mr. Durrett," said my doctor, entering the tiny meat freezer, medical jargoned as the "Patient Examination Room."

"It's magic time," I replied, referring to the impending physical perusal of me, external, internal, and walletal.

"Has it been a whole year since your exam?" he asked, nosing through my records.

"Yessir," I said.

Like "Bingo," he blurted, "To the day! Paid in full."

After I answered a long series of identical medical questions from the nurse and the requisite fill-in-the-blanks forms, the doctor got down to business. He asked me his list of identical medical questions. I must've done well because I wasn't sent to Study Hall.

And I got to go pee for them first! Usually, they make me hold it and hold it and hold it until things are looking distinctively orange through my rose-colored glasses.

I've always been fascinated by urine samples. (Hummel figurines and other captivations were previously taken by the kids up my street.)

Is a squirt too much? A phweet too little?

My medical knowledge is nearly nil, so the samples I leave are an amount equivalent to a small serving of warm apple juice. If restaurant chains say it's sufficient, I say it's sufficient, although seldom do I place parsley and hash browns on the side.

I did the deed, tidied the area, and wrote my name on a slip of paper which identified the tumbler o' goo.

To be extra-festive, I signed the note, "To Dr. Probst and his love, and to the girls in the Lab and their loves." I adore life when everyone knows my sugary goodness doesn't exist only in a cup.

I placed the liquid on the sill, next to a little shuttered window which could be opened by the medical technician on the other side. To signal emission accomplished, I knocked on the wall.

"The Urine Fairy!" she gasped.

"I heard that," I heard me say.

Soon, following a series of tests, I rendezvoused with the doctor for his portion of my evaluation. He reviewed the data collected during the past few minutes.

"Your EKG, good," he said. "Lab results on Friday, flu shot done-- oh, DEAR MERCIFUL GOD IN HEAVEN! PROTECT THIS MAN FROM THE SUCCUBUS! -- Um, your blood pressure seems high, Michael."

"Can you prescribe a vampire?"

"Not with your deductible, " he said. "Besides, a vampire means certain death."

What about one that's just now teething?"

He ignored me. He was holding my chest x-ray near the light. "Lungs good, nothing to worry about. We'll keep an eye on this spot in the shape of Lee Harvey Oswald."

Next, assuming fish-mouth mode, I took some deep breaths while Dr. Probst listened through my back and front. No tsk-tsk noises from him, a good sign. Then, he nailed me on the knee with a hammer.

"Don't do that," I said.

He tapped the other knee.

"Don't do that," I said.

"I'm checking your reflexes." He hit me some more.

My legs were flailing around the room and before we knew what happened, I was on my feet, strutting, "These vagabond shoes! Are longing to stray! And make a brand new start of it! New York! Newwww--"

"Drop your pants to your knees and face me."


I did what I was told. It was time for the money shots, kids. The heavily gloved doctor examined my you know. I prayed I was healthy and he was not being paid by the hour. It, of course, as you might imagine, probably often, was a big job.

"Turn your head and cough," he said, inspecting a testicle or two.

"Cough," I said.

Coughing the other direction, the doctor examined me.

"You have a dangling participle," he said.

"Can you give me a salve?"

"No," he clarified, "I meant what you were thinking a moment ago: 'Coughing the other direction, the doctor examined me.' It's dangling."

"You heard that?"

"This stethoscope is strong. Bend over, arms on the table."

"Oh, great. What are you gonna hear in there?"

I consider prostate examinations to be necessary, preventive maintenance. I'm not embarrassed by the routine, but I do have a dire fear of hangnails.

"You've been biting your nails again, Doctor," I said, pre-examining his hands.

"You can see that? I'm wearing gloves."


I assumed the position, sprawled across the table. To say the procedure was "short and sweet" is probably not proper. The piercing Dr. Probst is a professional. His investigative manner was skilled and swift. Me, I made vehicle backing-up beeps.

"I'm going to push on your prostate and you'll have an urge to urinate," said Doc.

"I gave at your office."

Wonderful news followed. "No problems detected," he said, exiting my premises.

"Buh-bye. Buh-bye. Buh-bye," I said.

"See you in a rear." He was gone.

And that's my story. I guess I can dress now. It's really hard to type in this position.

::::: Extras: Mikey's Colonoscopy Corner | Top 12 Joys During a Colonoscopy Examination


I'm Dating the Paris Hilton Sex Tape Game

I'm having a perfectly lovely Sunday. Sandwiched between the Psalms and Jell-O shooters, I've been playing the online Paris Hilton Sex Tape Game. I found it while researching The Funny Site of the Day feature for About.

There's nothing the Internet loves better than a celebrity sex scandal and you'd think poor little rich girl Paris Hilton would know better than to be videotaped during a frisky romp. Heck, even I'm hip to photo faux pas! That's why no video cameras are ever on the premises when I'm manning the traffic cones, chocolatey Nutter Butter Bites, and lawn gargoyles of love. Oh, occasionally, I'll admit a sketch artist into the bedroom to sit in the bleachers and doodle me diddling, but that's for my eyes only -- and, maybe, an attractive pant-by-numbers portrait, available at better stores everywhere.

If you wanna play with Paris, here's more on the game, which is innocent, by the way. But screwy!


Meow, Dammit!

We're all vegetarians in this house.

--Well, except the cats.

That reminds me, we're out of cat food and I can tell when the cats are hungry. They've taken to calling me "Roy."

I've been called "Roy" so much, I'm nervous. I may have to take off the spandex kitty tamer's suit.

That's the last time I put Siegfried-nip in my pockets.


What's My Beet?

I'm a vegetarian. I'm not allowed beefs.

I can't even moo like a cow. I can forefinger-thump my head to simulate gourd sounds. That's about it. I'm allowed that.

And that's my beet.


The Dream

Some day I hope to make this blog an oasis of pithy didacticism. 'Til then, enjoy my socks.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...