For lack of a better reason, I have a choice to write about many things, many subjects or whatever is boiling within my brains at any given moment. But for today’s purposes, I shall tell you a little story, a story about greed, a story about lust, a story about passion, all in the name of food!There’s this outfit that I hang out with most of the week and for the most part they are a sad-happy sort of bunch. Like me, they have their ups and downs, their crimes their misdemeanors their efforts, their energies that can sometimes be fantastically rewarding, while other times terribly, terribly depressing and dreadful.
Every so often, a few of us get together and just hang; shoot the shit, bump the breeze, bang the buck and generally, have a good time with it. When we hang, we don’t do much but acknowledge each other’s presence and present needs, concerns and reward our egos righteously.
Everyone needs a little self-praise and horn-tooting once in a while, at least I think so.
Lately, there hasn’t been a lot of that, it’s just more like biting the bullet, shut-up and just do what we are put on this mighty earth to do; slave to the man, pay the bills, mop the floors, grease the pans, kiss a few asses, blow a few noses, rattle and hum like a bunch of Botox Frankenstein monsters clomping with our lunch pails to the local beanery and clomp back to our proper sitting place in the eternal brown-nose trailer-park.
Most recently, some of my pals got together and threw a happy hour bash. Lots of people participated; brought food, drink, sweets and everything else in between. When I heard about it at first, I turned a deaf ear.
I don’t like bashes or big parties in general, primarily because I feel socially awkward and most often, claustrophobic. I know I have been that way in the past and most recently too, even amongst my pals, though they may not realize why I often decline such things. I’m no social butterfly, though I suppose I can be one at times, but it’s more of a rarity than anything else.
I was approached by one of my pals, Miz Lou, who asked me if I was going to join her and everyone else. I told her at first that I really wasn’t sure and got kind of nervous inside. I then asked her if she really wanted me to come and she said yes. She told me it wouldn’t be long and I could pop in later if I desired.
I thought about it and I told her that I would try to make it. All week between gigs of writing and slaving to catching or getting rid the mice that seem to love my apartment, as evidence to the following of myself finding Mouse Number 19 dead or perhaps it was sleeping eternally in one of my gym shoes recently.
At last the big day arrived and I was still not in the mood to go. As I stated earlier, big crowds give me the Willies, why I don’t know, but they do, but they always say for food bashes, come early or the good stuff will be gone.
And what an understatement that was! The local beanery was packed to the gills, considering that virtually everybody heard about it and brought their friends, well, it was publicized I guess, so that’s partially true.
Everybody all showed up at once, which is always a problem at these sorts of shindigs, too many bodies, not enough courtesy, all the multiple stomachs have only eyes for oodles of sweets, crunchy potato chips, glorious pieces of fried chicken, picturesque plates of hot dishes of macaroni & cheese, steaming spaghetti with meatballs or meat-sauce, the kind that would make even The Prince Spaghetti Boy’s mother weep and go green with envy, because she wasn’t even invited!
But then there are those that couldn’t care less about those that arrive late and think only of their stomachs. They have their own S. O.S. (Save Our Stomachs) flags flying high for everyone else to see and they are proud of it.
From what Miz Lou told me, by the time I arrived, after slaving and unsuccessfully trapping Mouse Number 19, I braved the cold weather and came out to the local beanery only to be told that the Circus Tent Lady filled two body bags full of food to take home to feast on!
What a greedy pig I thought, although by the looks of her, you’d know she was; yes that’s mean, but when you think about it, is taking food without asking anyone else if it’s okay to take food home to begin with, well that’s just downright rude, arrogant and unladylike.
Clearly Miz Lou was upset and I understood it from both sides, though my brain didn’t exactly understand why the Circus Tent Lady filled the body bags to begin with. I didn’t think by the looks of her that she wasn’t exactly starving.
The morals of this story are: greed is greed and pigs are pigs; from tiny to circus-tent size. They only think with their stomachs and not their hearts when it comes to reality. Free food is free food. And I personally wouldn’t trust them at a young child’s birthday party, as when no one is looking, they might rip off the candles on the birthday cake with the flames still brightly burning, thereby stealing the future wishes, hopes and dreams of a child!
Shame on you, Circus-Tent Lady, shame on you!
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