posted: April 10, 2004
Every year at Easter, there's a sudden flush of eggs. But it occurs to me to wonder, where these extra eggs come from. (Yes, I know "chickens" you beasts, but that's not what I mean.)
Eggs are a fresh food product, and we have a pretty steady supply of them at the grocery store every day. This is not something you can stockpile ahead of time and then just pull out of storage in the nick of time, y'know. Stockpiled eggs would smell pretty awful long before Easter Sunday. And surely egg-farmers have the production rates pretty well calculated so that they don't end up with too many eggs, thus driving down the price, forcing destruction of perfectly good eggs and exhausting hens.
No, I suspect something is rotten in the state of Easter.
I blame the Bunny, because, let's face it, without the whole Easter-egg-hiding gig, the guy's got no job (unless you suspect, as I sometimes do, that he's actually Bugs Bunny and this is just a retirement hobby--but we all know how he got the name "Bugs" now, don't we...?) But regardless, those eggs have to come from somewhere and I think I know where: intimidation and extortion.
Just think of it: hardworking hens lay their butts off day after day with no time off, dreading the approach of Easter. Once past the Vernal Equinox, slavery and terror are their lot and they live in fear of the night the Easter Bunny's enforcers arrive....
Quietly they slip into the hen house, their black suits and dark glasses making them all but invisible. Egg-sucking low-lifes from the wrong side of the mammalian tracks. The weasels rush the house and threaten the hens, making room for their crew-leader: the Jack rabbit (have to keep this in "the Family" y'know).
Jack arrives and hops into the center of the cleared space among the terrified hens.
"Good evening ladies. I'm sure you were hoping you'd never see us again, but you've done such exemplary work in the past, we just couldn't stay away. Alas for you, the days of the high-cholesterol scare are over, so there'll be no slacking off this time. And don't get to thinking that any rooster is coming to your rescue. No, no.... Foxy and his friends outside will keep your lads at bay. So, let's get to it, ladies! And remember: don't piss off the weasels--'cause they'd snap your neck and suck your eggs as soon as look at you. Chop-chop, biddies, let's start laying!"
Woe unto the hen who slacks or tries to get away, for the weasels with the itchy fangs and the foxes at the door will make short work of her. The Bunny doesn't take well to being short-changed.
Think about it. In your inner, secret mind, you know it's true: Easter is hen-exploitation at its worst. Every Easter egg is an egg laid in terror, hens at the mercy of slavering mercenary weasels and psycho hares.
If only we were not so fond of Easter eggs, if only we could curb our own appetites for boiled hen-fruits and deviled eggs afterward, hens might live in peace at Easter, for the Bunny is in this only for the money. Where there is no demand, there's no big payoff and no need for such a supply.
So, I say, rise up, Friends! Strike a blow for Hens! Eschew Easter eggs from chickens and from ducks and geese (because you know they're next!) Don't eat those brightly dyed, decorated and glitter-crusted eggs. Don't allow them to be hunted through the morning Spring grass. No, no! Go Chocolate!
Yes, chocolate and candy eggs are the key! Strike a blow against chicken intimidation: candy Easter eggs only!
Do it for the Chickens!
posted: April 17, 2004
I don't want to be your friend, I just want more coffee.
While it's true that I prefer friendly service over surly service and I think people should enjoy their jobs, I don't want it to be at my expense as a customer. The staff at the local diner has rolled over completely and the last good waitress is gone. Now the floor staff are mostly cute young things (male and female) who are perky and friendly, who squat down beside the table or sit down in the spare seat to take your order or chat, but are invisible as Claude Raines when your water glass is empty and as incapable of making the rounds without being prompted as a three-legged sheepdog with a bad case of fleas.
Oblivious, they lurk near the refrigerator, chatting about ayuervetic medicine and aligning their chakras with the "flow" of the work place and neither of them has noticed my longing looks toward them and the coffee maker. Perhaps it would be better if they aligned their chakras with the "flow" of customer service, rather than that of flirting via New Age cool.
The temptation to get up and fetch my own coffee is huge (or possibly to discharge a flare). Not because I want to upset them, but because I want more coffee. Is this really a lot to ask? That the service personnel actually render a little service? What have I been leaving them 20-30% tips for all this time?
Are they trying to enforce healthier breakfast drinking habits upon me? If so, how come I can't get more water, either? Where did my toast get off to? And why is my fruit cup looking quite lovely, but at a distance of four yards from my table?
I suppose the current crop are an improvement over the short-lived waitress who wouldn't give me a BLT for breakfast because the lettuce and tomato hadn't been removed from the fridge, yet, and asking the kitchen staff to do that would be an unfair imposition upon them. Or so I was told in a sweet-as-treacle voice while I was further informed that I needed to choose another entree and not to order that one before 11 a.m. in the future. And by-the-bye, surely I didn't want that nasty old black tea, because the herbal tea was much better.
I don't want to be her friend, either. I suspect my look of horror, observed by the-last-good-waitress, may have contributed to this woman becoming absent from the diner staff soon afterward.
And I really don't want my wait-person to make themselves comfy on the spare chair or the floor beside the table unless they really and truly are my friends and I've invited them to sit down. (I'd never expect a friend to sit on the floor when there are chairs!) I also don't want them to demand the title and synopsis of my reading matter, much less do I want them to pick it up and examine it. "Interesting book?" is a reasonable question. Or "I see you're reading such-and-such. How do you like it?" But beyond that, they should leave my possessions alone unless I've walked off and thoughtlessly left them behind. Good gods! That's a book for Flips' sake! And it's mine. (Drop the book on the table, put up your hands and back away slowly and no one will have to get hurt....)
There is only so much friendliness and personality a customer will exchange for decent service and edible food. The Ed Debevic's chain has made a reputation on "eccentric" service personnel, but the food is edible (if not much more) and it arrives on your table in an orderly and professional manner, in spite of the carefully-cultivated off-hand attitude of the help. And they know better than to let a coffee junkie's cup stand empty for long (or a water-drinker's). None of this chatting in the back room while the customer looks longingly toward the urn like a prisoner of the vinyl booth pining for the freedom of self-serve.
And to think I changed from drinking tea to drinking coffee largely because most restaurants can't seem to remember to refill hot water containers. Not to mention the fact that most American restaurants cannot seem to grasp the basic principles of decent (don't even bother with outright good) tea-making. Oh, but the tea-rant is for another time, yes? (Don't get me started....)
Service, please. Just a little and not too up-close-and-personal. That's all I ask. I'm not difficult, really. I will insist that foods which make me yarf not make an appearance in my meal, but beyond that, I don't expect anything extraordinary. Cleanliness, reasonable temperature food, napkins, drinking water. Forks.
Refills.
And don't touch the book.
posted: April 24, 2004
Ever roll over in bed and realize that you have too many arms? Not to say that you suddenly have three or more, but that the ones Nature gave you are in the way. The arm on the bottom makes you lie in a lump or it folds up funny and smacks your bedmate on the back of the head, or jabs an elbow into them or you. The conspiracy of mechanics and geometry turn an otherwise useful limb into a club which flails around spastically or folds up like a broken umbrella and pokes inopportune places while someone is trying to sleep. Or it crumples into a hump beneath you and becomes an aching, limp thing with which you can do nothing at all.
Then the other arm joins in, flopping about on top, trying to find a place to drape which is not going to strangle someone, poke them, constrict them or waken you to the sight of a five-fingered spider twitching half-an-inch from your eyes.
Wouldn't it be nice if you could take the silly thing off at night? Just grab onto a convenient hanging ring, lock your grip in place, and pull the magic pin, leaving your limb conveniently located for re-attachment in the morning, while you curl up comfortably on your side.
Of course, it might be somewhat inconvenient in a fire if you ran out of your blazing bedroom and left the arm hanging about behind. College students would be prone to short-limb one another as a lark (and that brings a new twist to the old, male military phrase "short arm inspection", doesn't it?) by swapping someone else's arm while the victim slept. But this is surely offset by the ability to get a decent night's sleep without that pesky spare-limb syndrome.
Another body part I'd like to be able to adjust is my bust. Nature (and genetics) generously gifted me with big tits. As much as this may attract the gaze (and occasional roving hands, no thank you) this prodigious shelf is a bit of a pain in the chest at times. I seem to have the "luxury evening model" where breasts are concerned, but many are the times I'd like to swap for the "sport model".
There is no such thing as a sports bra which can reasonably restrain and support these bobbling masses in the throes of athletic endeavor and, let me tell you, it hurts to run when the physics of "equal and opposite reaction" come into play. Push ups aren't so fun, either, nor rowing. Though I can't decide if the best alternative would be to swap for the spare set or have some way of inflating and deflating them in-situ. Adjusting them would have to be undertaken only when fully awake, however, as an ill-made grab could lead to extreme lopsidedness.
But, in spite of that, I can see lots of advantages to being able to swap your parts around. Maybe, in the future, humans will be modular. It would make medical issues much easier to manage. If you broke a leg, you'd drop it off at the doctor's and use a loaner leg for a while. True, you might limp a bit from off-the-rack fit, but you wouldn't have to figure out how to shower while wearing a cast. And you could send your hair out to be washed, cut and styled while you were asleep.
Some things would still be inconvenient or too personal to want to drop off--I mean, who wants to run around with rental eyes or leave your private parts in the unsupervised hands of someone who might be Robin Williams in One Hour Photo? But, over all, wouldn't the convenience outweigh the rest?
Though, I can't say I'm charmed by the initiating process....
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