Going Postal

"I've been really hungry, baby. Trying to hold back these cravings for so long, and if you feel like getting a meal baby, come on, oh, come, let's go to Vons" Bob Knows Best from "Let's Go To Vons"

As the nurse entered with my morning Dixie cup of alternate reality inducers I smelled something that hadn't hit my sinus cavity since I was remanded to the Asylum for my own protection. The source of the scent was vexing until she bent over me, her bosom nearly spilling out of her tight white uniform. The aroma was coming from her. Specifically, her mouth. She had eaten a chili burger from Tommy's before work. That selfish tramp didn't even bring me so much as a french fry. And smelling that delicious sandwich on her breath got me to thinking.

The Food Network, according to a friend of mine, is ESPN of fat people. Not the most politically correct of statements, as I prefer the non de plume of "Big Boned American", but the gist of his analogy was pretty hysterical. But what is a food lover to do? Eating the same thing, even if it's the greatest mean ever prepared, eating it everyday would turn it into something you despise. Imagine your favorite chow, now imagine that it's Law and Order, on every friggin night, different side dishes, but the "boong boong" is still happening every time the screen goes black. Eventually, you change the channel to one of the 27 CSI's on CBS.

Super Mom makes my favorite dish for me, maybe, twice a year. Once for my birthday and if I'm lucky I get it once more during the course of the year. Lasagna. A giant dish of flat noodles, meat, sauce, and cheese.. It's the most perfect, yes I know it's improper English, there can't be a better than perfect, tell that to the guys that wrote that "more perfect Union" line in the Constitution, but anyway, there is no food that can can supplant Lasagna in my heart. Well, at least as far as home cooked fare goes.

When it comes to fast food, I am in hell. Don't get me wrong The Slow has it's charms and the Barbecue here will make your eyes bleed sauce, it's that good. But there is no Tommy's. No Del Taco. No In and Out. No good char-broiled burgers what-so-ever. In California I was spoiled by these things, as my waist line will testify, but here I'm like Richard Kimble looking for the One Armed Burgermeister. A good cheeseburger is like good sex. It satisfies. It's fulfilling. And a day or two later you want some more. Now that I'm not getting either, I'm starting to understand those people that snap and shoot twenty people waiting in line for stamps. All of them could be saved by a blow job and a burger basket.

Now go out to eat, and I'm talking dining here, there's only one p[lace that is worthy of my undying love. Lowry's Prime Rib. Don Jerry, reputed mob boss and father of Atomic, took, no that's the wrong word, treated the Jew and I, along with Atomic, to a dining experience that has forever stained my brain with lustful thoughts of 1 1/2 inch cuts of prime rib, red, medium rare, juicy as an Otter Pop, steak of the Gods. I salivate at the mere mention of the succulent beef. To you vegetarians, vegans, and PETA activists out there, you have no idea what you are missing. If God didn't want us to eat cows, she wouldn't have made them taste so good.

What's your favorite meal? Home cooked? Fast food? Favorite place to dine?

Dixie Cup of Love: Don Jerry