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8 Stages Of Being Me

August 3rd, 2009 · No Comments · Potpourri

I offer you an explication of my newish image banner. Should you accept this offer, I hope you’ll hold me personally responsible for any damage or success your well-being incurs as a result.

I will not link or display a copy of the image itself within this post, for posterity’s sake. In the future, when I decide that the current banner is horribly designed and needs to be replaced, whatever I replace it with will, without any doubt or actual planning, continue to perfectly accompany this humble narrative. My banner will always represent the perfect me and, whether you can distinguish the divisions or not, the absolute truth of the idea that there are eight, exactly eight, and no more than eight, genuine stages of being awesome:

1) Fish. Eat some, prepare some, feed some to others. Raw food is good for you in some amount. Begin there, and if you get bored with it, cook slowly until you’re sufficiently less boring. Remember, you can’t uncook it. We all started out in brine, so get back to your roots and eat your ancestors. Just don’t make them suffer near a source of heat for too long, if you must torture them that way at all.

2) Duck. Why duck? Because if you don’t, you might get hit. Duck will save your life. Duck is food, but do not eat it raw, unless you are a wild animal with a hardy digestive tract and immune system finely evolved for making sure raw duck does not kill you. Children of all ages would be much less stupid and annoying if we’d replace that confusing “Stop, Drop, and Roll” nonsense with the much more forward and easy-to-remember imperative/exclamation/query of “Duck!” Groucho understood this, and you should, too.

3) Grill. Do this often, as soon as you have developed the dexterity and gathered the resources to do so. Just don’t do it for very long when you do. Your colon and my colon will thank you, and eventually all you’ll have is your colon. After that’s gone, the grill will be mostly useless. Take care of your grill/colon, and they’ll take care of you, one way or another.

4) Cut. No, not yourself, an avocado. It’s tricky, but it’s an essential skill all human wasings should have learned before they died. If your dying aunt who has never sliced an avocado requests an audience with you, before she grabs your collar with her smelly, disgusting old-people claw to pull you near and reveal where the family’s Confederate treasure is buried, put a gloved finger to her lips. Sternly instruct her in the art of guacamole preparation, let her demonstrate her new ability, and then cut off her air supply until she tells you where the real treasure is. Family ties are important, and should not be taken for granted or allowed to grow unchecked.

5) Corn. At some point in your life, you will watch a person named Chris happily shuck an ear of corn. Pics or it didn’t happen.

6) Pizza. If you do not enjoy cheap, frozen pizzas, you have not yet reached the milestone of true enlightenment. Buy at least $100 worth of various store-brand, rising-crust pies and hand-select a team of trusted guides with whom to journey deep into the arid desert. Once there, subsist on bottled water and pizza for one week. The elementary skills learned in developmental stages one to three will be tested to their limits. If you survive, celebrate quickly and then travel immediately to the nearest colorectal surgeon for maintenance and repair.

7) Ignorance. A reborn appreciator of frozen pizzas can confidently brush aside the protestations of unwashed regulatory and law-enforcement types who wish to prevent you from sharing your consumables with those not fortunate enough to have made it to the desert with their ovens and cardboard boxes intact. You are not a restaurant or food-service organization.  You are Me, and pizza is delicious. Naysayers be damned. Say not nay, say yay.

8) Me. Me am you and you are arrived. Eat, prepare, and cook pizza until death or colon failure hinders your ability. Place the family treasures in a safe place, under the curatorial management of a trustworthy pizza consumer who already knows the way of the avocado. If, on your deathbed, a familiar face approaches with a chef’s knife and a cutting board, activate your well-planned euthanasia process and smile contently as the colors all become gray. We win.

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