What was it Time Magazine said? Each day, 13,000 people launch a blog? And the average blog has three readers? I prefer the way Lore Sjoberg of Wired put it. "Creating your own blog is about as easy as creating your own urine, and you're about as likely to find someone else interested in it."W'shit. If you count me, my best friend since 11th Grade, and then me again, using a fake name, I can maintain an average blog readership!
As I enter the brightly-colored-snot-wads phase of this year's bout of CHARAD (Crowded Holiday Airplane Recirculated Air Disease), I find myself awake in the middle of the night, sitting upright at my desk, so I can cough and sneeze and breathe through my mouth Danza-style. And being jacked up on Nyquil (a full 90 minutes of effectiveness in every 6-hour dose!), I figured I'd take advantage of this bored anguish.
Figured I'd start a blog.
I've barely ever read a blog (combination of dyslexia and apathy), let alone wanted one of my own. But for years, people have asked why I ain't bloggin'. (I now realize that's an insult.) I haven't the vaguest what that means, but cluelessness has never stopped me before.
So here I sit, cracking my knuckles, clearing my throat, and doing that Ed Norton preparation ritual of unfurling arms and cap adjustment. And now (drum roll, please), my first ever blog entry:
Ode to the Butterscotch Pudding Cup
You're a mystery to New York City grocers, and must be Priority Mailed to me from four states away. Pretty sure only you, I, and the four-states-away person wouldn't find that odd.
Your proud amber hue, nuclear in intensity and defiant in its very color-not-found-in-nature-ness, knows no peer. Which sucks when you're trying to explain away the smudge on a very important notarized affidavit.
Every brand of you tastes exactly the same. Reassuringly artificial, and bearing no gastro-resemblance to actual butterscotch pudding, for which you are named.
Oh, the aural pleasure of that snap, as I break you off from your twin. The music of promise, that snap.
Peeling off your top and licking the first of you, I pause to ponder your quivering creamyness. Your heaving and quaking beckons me. You rise as I embrace you. I want to consume you. I want to release you from the prison of your over-packagedness. Take that, landfill!
When I have you at my desk, and the laborious task of fetching a spoon from the kitchen is more delay than I can endure, I find I can pinch your bottom and squeeze you up, plunging my tongue into you again and again, frantically slurping and sucking until you are spent and I am satisfied.
But only if no one is looking.
My nose and chin still dabbed with evidence of our love, I eye your siblings. They pretend not to notice me, but how can they not feel the heat of my desire? Their faux innocence taunts me. I try to resist, but jayzus, what was that? Three, maybe four mouthfuls? C'mon! My breath quickens. I reach for another.
O butterscotch pudding cup, you may taunt me, but you do not lie.
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Yup. That's all I got in me. An open letter to a processed food product not intended to be consumed by adults. Not just an unashamed display of affection for a fake food, but an "I told you so" to the peeps who've been suggesting I blog.
I told you so.
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