Sarsaparilla Alphabet #2

B - BUTTER

On a glass plate on a long dinner table draped with a crimson table cloth sits a block of butter. Taking a seat, Edward wraps his head around the chair's arms, which are carved with snarling griffins. The butter sits 25 feet away, and Edward stares at it. He leans down onto the table, twists his head to the side, and stares at it, as if at any moment, it will show signs of life. He grabs a butter knife, holding it like a machete. He stands up slowly, careful to not arouse suspicion. He freezes. The butter's watching. Ducking behind the black curtains, Edward peeks out the side for his chance. No good, it seems to have eyes on all five sides. He has one last chance.

In two solid motions, he cocks his arm backs and heaves his mighty weapon at the beast's heart. Just nicked him, he snarled. But at least he's wounded. This may be my chance!

Edward ran like a madman, howling a war cry with both his hands in the air. He leaped onto the table and grabbed the butter with both his hands and wrestled with the foul beast. Gaining the upper hand, he smashed it into a slice of bread, vanquishing the malevolent being.

Edward carried his spoils back to his large chair with the griffins engraved into the arms and sat and placed it next to the five forks, two knives, three spoons, and a cloth napkin, folded in a way that resembled a swan. Unfolding the napkin into his lap, he sank his teeth into the bread, spotting his luxurious mustache with yellow entrails. There was a knock on the door, and a man in a crimson suit (adorned with a brilliant yellow ascot) emerged from the other side of the tall, heavy, wooden doors.

"Prime Minister? I come to discuss a possible treaty for peace."

Breakfast

The election is a lot like this bowl of Chocolate Chex, in that the brown chex are so much better than that plain, white ones. Also, Obama is covered in a delicious cocoa powder while McCain is dry and bland - obviously a commentary on foreign policy.

Tea Time

My roommate knocked on my door.

"So I've tried this tea... I had the mint one, but it tasted exactly like water. I don't really like tea, so here, have this." He handed me the box of Bigelow tea bags. What an odd name. Like that movie.

A few hours later, I decide to make a cup, just to see if it's any good. I open up the rectangular, yellow thing and look at the six different teas that range from "Green Tea" (okay, normal), "Earl Grey" (ooh, exotic), "English Teatime" (uhhh), and "'Constant Comment'" (well... huh), each in a different color. Obviously, "Lemon Lift" is in a yellow bag, "Green Tea" in green, "Plantation Mint" in a darker.

I walk out to the kitchen and my roommate joins me - we're going to try every tea and see how they are. I start with "Constant Comment," a "tea flavored with rind of oranges and sweet spice." Exotic. Interesting. Five minutes later, and it tastes like water. Wait... hm. Another sip. Ahhh.... there's a slight aftertaste of weak oranges.

My roommate goes for green tea, and I, "Lemon Lift." The first is bland, and he used two tea bags. Mine is pleasant and unoffensive, with a nice lemony taste on the way out. I'd keep drinking mine!

And now, we have one left that neither of us have tried: Earl Grey. "Perfectly flavored with natural bergamot." Bergamot. Okay. The tea bag announces the tea's aristocratic history. Well, if the history's behind it...

My roommate smells the bag.

He retches. I, of course, must know how awful it is for a man like him to react like that!

Oh god.

Into the microwave the water goes. He then puts in three tea bags so that there's actually some strength in this batch.

The brew smells as potent as the bag itself was. My roommate readies himself.

He immediately spits it into the sink and sticks his head under the faucet. Not only was it scaling-hot (duh), he says it tastes even more vile than it smells.

Meanwhile, I'm laughing my ass off at him. Regaining my composure, I take a drink.

Oh god. No. Why would you drink this. Why. Why. Why does it have the reputation that it does. No. No no no no no.

We try adding sugar. Oh god. Now it tastes horrible AND it's too sweet.

Fuck you, second Earl Grey. Fuck your nasty ass tea. You could have smelled it and thrown it away. But no, you brought it back to England and let it proliferate. Fuck you, sir.

Massabloggachusetts, Pt. 2

Massachusetts, we need to talk.

Your pastramis and reubens are amazing. No other place in the world has come close to your mastery of sandwichcraft. But please, for all that is holy, do not call a cucumber a pickle. A pickle has been soaked in brine for several days. A cucumber has not. A pickle has not been swirled around in brine before handing it to me with my dinner. If you'd point out that you serve cucumbers with your sandwiches, that's fine. But do not call it a fucking pickle and expect me to think that what is going in mouth is one when it is very clearly not.

Thanks.