Twinkie Defense


I bought yogurt and oatmeal. I also bought, in a moment of weakness, cheese danish (It was on sale! A bargain!). Guess what I’m having for breakfast. Hint: It’s not yogurt. Or oatmeal.

There was a time when I would have reasoned that since I was going to add sugar and cinnamon to the oatmeal anyway, the danish wasn’t a terrible choice. And yogurt? Yogurt is a dairy product; the danish contains cheese. For that matter, ice cream isn’t that far a cry from Frosted Flakes with milk either, right?

For years I made such rationalizations about food. Is this where I’m supposed to tell you how I removed sugar from my diet and became a better person for it? I hope not. Because it’s not true. Not the sugar part. Certainly not the better person part.

I may need the “Twinkie Defense” when I finally go apeshit on someone. Possible victims of my imaginary crimes change every day. The husband who “works all week” and, therefore, cannot be expected to wash a dish or run a vacuum. Nor will he, without complaint, get out of his “Archie Bunker” chair to deactivate the smoke alarm that is going off as a result of cooking anything in my “the exhaust fan is still broken” kitchen.

How’s about procuring that exhaust fan? You did the research. (Yes. I said research. Apparently, painstaking and time-consuming research is required to purchase a $30 exhaust fan.) Now, buy the goddamn fan already. One would think that a reasonable person would understand that less energy, over the long run, is required to stop at Home Depot (or whichever store has been selected as a result of the extensive research) than is expended with the constant jumping up and down, climbing on the dining room chair, and removing the smoke alarm. I often wonder if he would survive the fall from the chair. Because I don’t want to be saddled with taking care of a quadripalegic. I already do enough around here.

And the kid? The kid might get smothered by laundry. This same laundry that she cannot manage to put in a hamper. Or, perhaps a case of salmonella would do the trick. Who cold blame me? Can I honestly be expected to give the proper amount of attention to such things as internal meat temperatures, distracted as I am by the ear-piercing screeching of the smoke alarm? On the down side, who would clean up the vomit?

My coworkers? Restaurants are fraught with danger, anyone with a passing familiarity with a corporate safety manual could tell you that. Anyone reading this thing might think we were deep-sea fishermen or mine workers. Read carefully, it is chock-full of ideas for mayhem and misadventure.

A tomato on the floor? A tib-fib fracture at the very least. That ought to lay up the lazy bitch who refuses to restock the spoons on a busy Saturday night for a while. A mislabeled sanitizer bottle? Mild asphyxiation. Might this buy a few days of relief from Princess Persnickety? Something as simple as an upward-facing knife mixed in with the spoons? Finger laceration. A couple of shifts without the dulcet tones of one of the Screaming Mimis might just feel like a vacation. A wobbly wine bottle on the top shelf? A concussed bartender. Could bring about a brief respite from the perpetually hungover nastiness of my least favorite mixologist.

With my luck, I’d forget about the booby traps and slip on the tomato, breathe the chemical, grab the knife, or reach for the wine bottle myself. Or worse, they’d miss their intended marks and someone I actually like would be hurt. I couldn’t live with that kind of guilt. I’m not a monster, for God’s sake.

Just a dreamer.

8 thoughts on “Twinkie Defense

  1. javaj240 says:

    Come on, don’t act like it wouldn’t be a consideration for you, too. LOL!

    Like

  2. peachyteachy says:

    Thank you for confessing that the biggest concern is actually the prospect of having to take care of a quadriplegic.

    Like

  3. surroundedbyimbeciles says:

    I would be forced to take the Moon Pie defense.

    Like

  4. That is so funny that you bring up the whole smoke alarm thing! Mine goes off almost every time not due to actual fire just from heating up a pan (okay, I have burnt a number of things too). My husband complains about this EVERY time when he has to get up and take it down. Every time he says he is going to relocate the stupid thing. This has been going on for 8 years almost every day!!!

    Like

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