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Potted meat

Unpotted on June 5, 2011.


A-yerkah, yerkah, yerkity yerkity yerkity yootles! Woo-hoo hey! Woo hoo-hey! Woohoohey! Woi woi woi! Bwahahahahahhahhahhh! Mlaw! Murp! Murple, turple! Moop! Moop—moop—moop! Brrrrrrrrruppphhh!! Brup! Brup! Brup, brup, brup-brup-brup!! Buk buk buk… buk buk buk… bukwaaukk! Bukwaaukk!! Bukwaaukk!! Bukwaaukk!!

Well… ahem…

That’ll be quite enough of that.

My involuntary dissertation on shrieking and babbling finally came to a close this morning—it having devoured, Langolier-like, two whole weeks of my Pnårpy life and leaving me as emaciated as a glorpf-snake that suddenly found itself afloat in the middle of the Atlantic with nary a McNugget® to its name. After taking a brief rest, which lasted a brief sixteen hours and ruined a whole bag of Hanes® boxer-briefs, I mooblesauntered into my kitchen to make myself a sandwich.

At the ready for a sudden gnome attack from out of nowhere, I peered slowly and carefully into my refrigerator. Silence. No sudden gnome attacks came, so I breathed a sigh of relief and considered my options: Authentic Hormel® SPAM®, slightly less authentic Spend-O-Mart® potted meat, a jar of French’s® mustard, and a jar of French mouse turds.

The authentic Hormel® SPAM® was most likely left over from a recent regrettable incident that yours truly would like to forget forever, and the mustard was sporting a fine beard of green mold which appeared to be on the verge of waking up and saying hello. The mouse turds were mouse turds (not to mention French). This left but one option: Authentic Spend-O-Mart® potted meat. So, authentic Spend-O-Mart® potted meat it would be!

Potted meat, potted meat,

Meat in a pot!

I sang to myself in my goatiest voice as I unpacked my pre-sliced loaf of Wonder Bread®, flung six slices onto a plate (only wasting another six slices in abortive attempts to hit the plate from across the room), and then had at the can of potted meat with fist and can opener. The first six attempts to open the can with my bare knuckles were unsuccessful, as they always are, as were my attempts to use my tongue, teeth, jaw, knee, heel, buttocks, armpit, and prehensile tail. Sighing, I finally resigned myself to using my can opener—actually a wonderful stainless steel Eigen® multi-tool manufactured by the hardest-working eigenchild eigenlaborers in Eigentoria.

Six minutes of tacky and ham-fisted product placement later, I had succeeded in slicing the can in two with the can opener (which also doubles as a circular saw!), and—miracle of all miracles!—had also succeeded in not slicing any of my hands in two at the same time. A bit more grunting and snuffling, and the cylindrical blob of salty, oily potted meat was extracted from the two mangled and mutilated halves of the can and plopped atop a smooth, refreshing slice of Wonder Bread® white bread.

Potted meat, potted meat:

A dish that can’t be beat!

Potted meat, potted meat—

A mechanically separated treat!

The other five slices of wonderful, wonderful Wonder Bread® served as the top and sides of my sandwich, and then the jar of French’s® mustard (with the mold beard carefully shaven off and deposited in an airtight and hermetically sealed biological sample jar) was poured into the airspaces of my increasingly curious lunch until viscous, yellow goo oozed everywhere. Finally, a single dog hair plucked from Yappie’s senile head was ceremoniously placed atop my mustardy bread cube: At last, my lunch was complete!

I then mooblescurried into my palatial parlor in order to feast, dine, feed, and even, dare I say it, eat. Neither Hell nor high schoolers would interfere; not even a pack of terrycloth sputter-nutters sputtering and nuttering madly would stop me now.

And not even playing with Britney Spears’ lubricious little feet could top this treat!

A man with a goofy moustache and even goofier eyeglasses babbled about a “near-space anomaly” on TV. I sat down in my big, comfy, Hitleresque chair, plateful of mustardy and meaty sandwich in hand. I eyed the sandwich in anticipation; it eyed me back. Off in the distance, a goat barked. A second goat neighed, and a third goat mewled and bawled like an infant separated from his transistor radio. A man died in the wilderness in Alaska and floated away. And Dana Scully was still chained up naked in a warehouse. And I… I had a sandwich. A cubical, cubical cube of bread, wrapping the finest Spend-O-Mart® product ever to grace Gourd’s (mostly) green Earth.

Crying aloud in sheer, unadulterated glee, foaming at the mouth, and frothing at the toes, I dove into my sandwich with more gusto and glee (there’s that glee again) than I had ever shown in my life. I yipped and I yipped and I even yipped some more. And then… I yeeped, yooped, and yoiked, too.

It was mustardy.

It was meaty.

It was yellow with a pink and greasy center!

And it was wrapped in six whole slices of delicious and nutritious white bread!

It was potted meat–gasmic!

I emerged from my plate-dive six minutes later, face covered in mustard and potted meat oil from top to bottom. I sighed. Not even playing with all ten of the Spice Girls’ lubricious little feet could have topped this experience!

I washed it all down with a light and fluffy glass of Ocean Spray® ant juice. Down the mooblespout it went! Having discovered yesterday—much to my hackneyed and clichéd chagrin—that I was all out of Hostess® Twinkies®, desert was composed instead of the next best thing: Tea and strumpets. I had some genuine Szczerbaczewicz & Smith® strumpets, to boot. Mr. Smith had personally assured me they were made from the finest imported strumpet meat, and I could now tell he was no liar. A big doodie-head for booting me out of his butchery shoppery again, perhaps, but definitely not a liar.

Potted meat noshed upon, ant juice swigged, tea chugged, and strumpets devoured, I rolled over onto my back—not unlike a beached Chihuahua—and dozed merrily off to sleep. I dreamed of my porcelain doll Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir and all the places I could go diving on her. Gnomes—and an excess of em-dashes—invaded my dreams, but I dealt with them handily with my trusty Eigen® brand multi-tool: It’s a can opener! It’s a screwdriver! It’s a circular saw! It’s a George Foreman® grill! It’s even a gelding knife!

Good night, you perspirating unga-pelungers of tarnation!