I think I'm going to frame my latest checklist. I've never seen so many checkmarks that actually count.
So I've been known to drive "novelty" automobiles. $300 VW Rabbits, Minivans, and my current "Buick." It's my (cheap) way of trying to stand out in a highway full of sameness. Highways. I'd rather be on an ocean than a highway, choosing my direction instead of being directed. But that's another spiel altogether. This "Buick" (I gruffly refer to it that was, as "Buick" by itself sounds so vulgar yet so apt) is a dirty sonuvagun. Not very pretty either. It's the kind of car that wants to be Clint Eastwood, but hasn't a prayer in even coming close. While some newer car models these days are paying tribute to the old-timey classics by incorporating some of their styles with a modern flair, like the PT Cruiser and what-have-you, this "Buick" is like a tribute to cardboard boxes. Notably in its um...squarity, but it bears a resemblance in color too. Yes, I drive a cardboard box. I have even scribed "This end up" in the muck on my car. I've actually left all kinds of 'temporary tatoos' on it, a sort of crude graffiti that gives the "Buick" a false sense of toughness. Again with the comic relief. Somebody's gotta do it, even if it's not much of a relief. My car: the clown. But it does its job well, in the most practical sense of a car's requirements. Championed many a mountain through some wicked blizzards in its time. I sometimes encourage it with a few "You can do it's" and patting the dashboard as if I was stroking its mane or scratching behind its ears. It responds well to this, I've noticed. My Jeep & 70's Trans-Am dreams (among others) can remain in stead for now. Biding, biding my time. Like I always do. Wait, I don't always do that. Only sometimes. Truth doesn't have to come in a single sentence anyway, right? Can't really trust words either. Ahem...
[size=1]The morning sun, so grapefruit round[/size]
[size=1]The breakfast glow of juice surrounds[/size]
[size=1]A morning hill sheds black for brown[/size]
[size=1]While amber stains the morning town[/size]
[size=1]The morning sky, so pure, so blue[/size]
[size=1]Untainted like the morning dew[/size]
[size=1]A color I would swim in too[/size]
[size=1]As long as clouds sleep in till two[/size]
[size=1]The morning shade, so softly sweet[/size]
[size=1]Its cooling charm polite to greet[/size]
[size=1]A grassy quilt lends cushy seat[/size]
[size=1]'Neath morning trees that block the heat[/size]
[size=1]The morning face, so rare a thing[/size]
[size=1]Breathes dreamy hymns cloaked in bedding[/size]
[size=1]It mutters, knows how annoying:[/size]
[size=1]'Why is morning in the morning?'[/size]
Ever felt like you were eating your sandwich upside down? No? Hmm. OK, how about this: Ever used leftover cereal milk for other purposes than to just gulp down post-cereal consumption? Honey Nut Cheerio milk goes well with green tea, for example. We all know the joys of Cocoa Krispie milk, or should know anyway. Waffle Crisp milk is darn good too. Heck, even Kix milk makes for a good beverage. Milk distilled in a pile of cereal goodness...man, cereal companies ought to market this stuff. And include teeny spongy pieces of cereal in it too, just for effect, but not so much as to choke a potential buyer. It should be consumed in small doses so you won't get sick. 6 ounce containers or something like that. Wait. Sell them in mini-bowls. After all, who doesn't drink their leftover cereal milk out of a bowl? Yeeeeaaah. "Cereal Milk." *starry eyes* Like a "dessert milk." And it could go with certain types of food and whatnot. Milk emulating wine...and why not? OK, so it can't age like wine. Coagulation of anything has never been very appetizing. Though I would persoally prefer eating the cereal and drinking the milk as my "dessert." A bowl of cereal with icy cold milk is oddly refreshing too. Anyways, I'll have to look more into this "Cereal Milk's" marketability. Minions, you can research too. Experiment. By command of Neumthor.
I have entirely too much fun with pickle jars. And pickles. I love pickles, so I might as well love the mothership too, right? Or at least find amusement in it. Yeah, I can go with that logic. I don't know if you've noticed, but opening up a pickle jar for the first time sounds like a hiccupping baby, as the popping lid dooms the contents to be in an everlasting state of diminishing freshness. That's one evil hiccup. It's like a ticking time bomb, counting slowly down towards that bobforsaken moment when the pickles officially go from edible to completely and utterly rotten. How dramatic! I must take it upon myself to save the world from this disturbing conspiracy of preservatives and natural deterioration and eat! Eat! I can eat to save the world, dammit! I was born to do it! But, like the opening of the jar, I usually turn the vastly complex process of removing a pickle from the jar and applying to my sandwich into a recreational activity of sorts. Have you ever tried to make your pickle dance? No no, you don't need to shoot cucumber seeds at their feet (boo). Your hands must instruct them. They must be Patrick Swayze to the pickle's Jennifer Gray. Works best with the sandwich stacker variety, as they are much more dexterous and nimble. Fish out a flathead pickle and literally let your fingers do the walking. They're pretty good with the conga, but with the proper mood and a charged countertop atmosphere, a pickled tango might be the way to go. A-brrrump-ah da da...a-dadada...d-d-da...d-d-dadaa...d-d-da! Your lips will quiver with excitement as your muscular thumb drapes the helpless pickle over the pointer finger in the classic [i]parada[/i] maneuver, waiting to make its passionate plunge. You wait...holding the fingerprinted gaze...a dribble of pickle juice runs down your finger...holding...hoooolding...
Maybe I'll try the chicken dance next time.