What's in a Name?

Yes, that's my question/comment/lament/ipsism of the day. Normally, I'd have prefaced the whole scenario with some pillow talk, a bottle of the finest MD 20/20 available, and an economy-sized box of extra small Trojans -Bonus Trivia! I prefer the ribbed variant, and wear them inside out, for my pleasure- but the problem is that such an atrocity is simply too much to preface with superfluous pleasantries.

What atrocity, you ask? Well, let's start here. Amidst a treasure trove of flavor, you may notice a Cheddar Cheese Pringles. That's problem numero uno. They used to be known as CheezUms, and they were awesome, but I'll hit that topic in a bit. I reside upon Korean soil, so that's the market that counts. Alas, there's no luck to be had here on the peninsula, either.

This is the dilemma: A man -and by man, I mean psychologically amorphous crack baby residing in a misshapen adult body- should be able to eat CheezUms until he vomits and, by extension, proclaim something akin to 'I'm going to eat CheezUms until I vomit' prior to doing just that. By contrast, just imagine uttering the phrase 'I'm going to eat Cheddar Cheese Pringles until I vomit.' What the fuck is that? Forget about poetry, Mr. John Milton, as we've Paradise Lost right in the here, right in the now. Or do we?

and lo, the star, which they saw in the north, led them not astray

As a tribute to our faithful Canadian progenitor, I checked in with the Great White North, and it looks as if the Maple Menace has become the last beacon of light in an otherwise abyssal world. In the darkest of Procter & Gamble nights, hope springs eternal. I promised Sparkles that I would engage in some decadent consumption, and by god, I plan on keeping such an oath, even if it means that I must resort to desperate measures. Here goes:

Dear Mrs. Sparkles' Mom,

I write to you, esteemed matron, in an effort to mend our sordid relationship. I fully acknowledge that I, in a bygone era of unmatched hostility, had grievously offended you. There is nothing short of utter remorse for the nefarious role I often played at several tribal gatherings. I drank heavily at the majority of these otherwise delightful affairs, perhaps due to my inability to cope with the pressure of comparing myself to the family goldfish. Nonetheless, I place the blame squarely upon my shoulders, especially for that time I put you in a headlock at the local Big Boy where the last of our kinfolk gatherings took place. I cannot, will not lie: I was devastated when you took a spoonful of my corned beef hash, and that you had elected to neglect my desire for the last shot of Jack Daniel's. The sorrow, and the rage, were incalculable, but that does not excuse my misbehavior.

Despite my vulgar performances, of which they be too numerous to warrant explication, I'd like to think that we have shared several moments best described as magical. Surely you recall Sparkles' wedding, the sixth one, that is. After an evening of festivities, the wedding party retired to the comfort of a sensibly decorated Super 8 motel. Enraged by some perceived slight or whatnot, I banged upon your door for a good twenty minutes, demanding to be let in so that we could discuss our quarrel. You didn't open the door, but after a while, some drunk woman found me, and proceeded to perform fellatio on me. I know that you, above all, could appreciate the sounds that permeated the door. That was so awesome.

Speaking of awesome, do you think that you could ship a few dozen cans of CheezUms to me or, if need be, to your son? He owes me a favor or two, mainly because he's been dipping into the angel dust. You know how it goes.

Your humble servant,
Thomas G. Waites

P.S. To help you relive that phenomenal evening, I have enclosed a picture of the T-shirt Sparkles made to commemorate the experience. Enjoy.




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Hati