Let me ask you something: if you had your choice for lunch of eating frozen yogurt, salad or that fetching woman in the next cubicle, what would you pick?
Forget about it. No woman – especially all the exes and ex paramours I know — is giving up her lunch for no sex. (An after-dinner mint, perhaps…)
It just goes to show you how easily challenged, titillated, if not starved, we all are – by the mere suggestive choices of sustenance and sex.
Sex, for instance — unless you’re a porn star — takes the least amount of time and causes the most amount of trouble. With eating, on the other hand, it’s not the hours or the minutes spent at the table that put on weight and woe — it’s the seconds.
So, perhaps, more of us should be concerned more about the trouble we’re putting into our bodies and less concerned about what trouble we’re putting our bodies into.
Hmmm…. I’m not quite sure I got that right. Neither would a lot of our deep-in-shit over-sexed politicians.
I’ll have to ask Jessica. She’s got a body that alters the shape of my pajamas. Puts a lot of men on psychotropic drugs. And she’s obviously vigilant about what she allows into her carnal cathedral. Believe me, I know. She hasn’t allowed me in for days.
Anyway, Jessica, modelish-careful about what she eats, decided it was too hot for moi to cook her a meal recently. The high temperatures and heat waves were still fire-branding the burnt, late-day sky.
But I don’t think Jessica wanted me to cook that day for other reasons. You see, when I’m playing chef I grill with my fab 2 fermented brews: Wine and beer.
Lots of them.
And sometimes I even add them to the food.
But not when Jessica’s around.
And she thought it was too hot to be drinking too much. She was laughing when she said it. Nothing sexier than a woman with a great laugh.
So, we walked into a frozen yogurt gourmet boutique on Philadelphia’s celebrated South Street.
We’d never been in one of these epicurean gastronomes before. But Jessica knows I like yogurt. Eat at least a cup of the darn stuff most every morning. I buy those tasty 6-ounce containers in the local Acme 10-at-a-time, for all of 5 bucks. Throw in a handful of raisins with the other fruit. And I got me a symphony of cuisine.
It makes me feel noble. Like since my heart attack and quadruple bypass, I am not packing cement in my veins with fried chicken and their unborn aborted chicks, we call eggs.
Now, in case you’ve been sick or drinking in Buffalo, you may recall that yogurt ain’t nothing but fermented milk – nestled in bacteria cultures no matter whether it’s from a cow, a camel, a yak, a goat, or a water buffalo.
The stuff may date back to 2000 BCE. In the 1800’s it was used to clean goats and sheep — and women, who used it for washing hair and bodies. In 500 BCE Iran and India writings mention it with honey as food of the Gods. In Persian writing Abraham was said to get his fecundity from eating it. And we all know the stories of the folks in the Russian empire who live twice past our social security age munching on the curds.
Frozen yogurt, meanwhile, isn’t really frozen. It just has ice crystals, similar to the ice crystals Marco Polo introduced to Italy after one of his 13th century sojourns to China.
Anyway, there was a pleasant young woman running the yogurt shop that was pretty much self-serve. She asked, mostly Jessica, if there was any way she could help us.
With the wine swishing in my left brain I was going to say: a steak hoagie. But knowing Jessica’s ability to stomp me squarely on my big ingrown toenail, I said: “How about ten million dollars and a one way plane trip?”
The woman smiled politely and wondered where I would go.
“Does it matter? I replied. “Let’s just all go together. Take our clothes off. Run naked thru the yogurt. Have a cat-lickin’ jamboree…..”
Jessica got the woman laughing by inferring that you’ve got to laugh at men because what else can you do with duh simple-minded idiots whose testicles hang as precariously as their brains.
And before I could say much more, Jessica put me in one of her painful hammer locks. She said that even though I wasn’t a politician and she weren’t no politician’s wife: I was still sleeping some place west of the turgid Mississippi tonight.
Hmmm….Goood thing she didn’t let me cook. Or I’d still be yapping.
Anyway, the store owner left and returned with two thimble-size white cups. Each was filled with a pinch of yogurt the size of the top-joint of your pinkie finger. Mine tasted of mango. And all I could say before Jessica’s eyes turned to razor blades and all but cut me a new circumcision: Yes, it definitely tastes like yogurt.
At that, the owner said to grab a cup and help ourselves.
Fine. Except why did no one grab me and shake my hair roots proclaiming: This is going to cost you more than 2 grams of cocaine! Even if I’m not lactose intolerant.
We each grabbed a white cup the size of small soup takeout containers in the local convenience stores. And were told to enjoy ourselves.
“Easy for her to say,” I said.
“It’s just yogurt,” said Jessica.
“And a Rolls Royce is just a car” I said.
Jessica’s humor shields a shrewd, thrifty businesswoman. In fact, she is so thrifty, if you don’t take her advice, she wants change for her two cents.
There were about a dozen exotic flavors and all sort of candy and nuts and fruit toppings, like jelly beans and mango. We didn’t put that much of any one thing in our cups. We both giggled when the yogurt machine dumped our bursts of yogurt just like a dog takes a plop. Looked just like it, too.
At the end we handed our cups to the nice lady. They were mostly filled to three-quarters. Mine had more jellybeans. I’m an addict. And the woman, without flinching, weighed our servings.
Now I knew we were in trouble.
Deep. Deep. Trouble.
Even Jessica seemed truly perplexed.
Now, I’ve read this somewhere authoritatively, that two of the most important ingredients in frozen yogurt are: air and water.
Let me repeat that: Air and water.
And then I saw the sign. Beneath the assortment of exotic flavors it said: 49-cents per ounce. For everything in duh cup.
Indeed, another world of: Drugs R Us.
My cup amounted to $11.53. Jessica’s cup was $9.78.
Hmmm. This, as many prices these days, has absolutely nothing to do with supply and demand. Manipulation, government intervention, greed. But not supply and demand. We’ve got plenty of supply. Our dairy industry is government subsidized. The demand was artificially inseminated into our society. And the bacteria has fermented – if not downright intoxicated – our eat-healthy-and-die anyway culture.
Suddenly Jessica started emulating me. What she exhaled in disbelief wasn’t directed at anyone. It was just something that she needed say.
“What is it about these places?” she wondered. “They should have warning signs: To be a proper asshole you must eat food that 75 percent of the world cannot afford unless they give up their teenage daughters.”
“Just think,” she added with a bemused smile, “what we could have bought with the $21 you just spent.”
I returned a devilish grin: “I have an idea…..”
But, of course.
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.