Miss Manners surely would frown on my ilk since generally I
distrust fussy formal place settings loaded down with highbrow habiliments populating
my placemat. For that matter why must all of my eating effects be confined to a
runty rectangle of colored fabric under my dishes, where even the saliva-salver
gets a cheery charger plate of its own? If I have a table full of prime real ‘eat-state’
I’m going to cover it ALL with stew, goo, and a napkin or two, to collect the
spew before it reflects off my face and back on to you.
What can I possibly do with a shorty fork that I cannot do
brilliantly better with a much longer one? In fact I think most of my gut-plugging
can be done with just a long tong and a ‘tick-pick’, so I can finally poke
those pesky bottle-upped bottom olives, and absolve tooth-bound stringy
asparagus from lingering longingly in a mirror and staring back at us. I savor soups
with stars too so the big dipper comes in quite handy, but given that dessert
is decidedly more dandy, I think it is doubtlessly dumb to sing a smaller spoon-tune
before I consume soon.
For most folks it is customary to wear a bib when buttering up
boatloads of lobster, but my wife insists that I always don a full length tarp,
regardless if I’m pawing haughty claws or plowing down towny-chow. She reasons
that a raincoat’s hot pockets awash in a comingling collection of cleaved-off crunchy calories, beats any day where floor-freed
peas plastered to her pads will turn her a shade of ‘green’, far closer to that
of the Hulk than anything akin to envy. I of course am usually too dizzy to notice
my wife’s pasty pedi-plight since hairy hungry hippos can’t help getting lost following
crumb trails, especially while circumnavigating their favorite dining room high-chair.
Hey I’m sorry that I’m not laced with grace nor a fan of that
handsome n’ tanned ideal man who is part of the shiny silverware-savvy
snob-set. Oh sure I maize still be a
little WET-Nap behind the ears but that’s normal when bobbing for
cobs and my lug of a mug is routinely covered in slop-trough gobs. Yeah I may
not have mainstay manners yet, but at least when I slurp a drinkie I still park my pinkie high in the sky and I’m pointedly polite
. . . since I never ever burp - unless spoken to first.
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