Why in the name of God Almighty did I ever buy the 16 oz. jar of Cape May Peanut Butter, when in all likelihood they traffic in larger quantities? It’s easy enough for a spry, healthy male of middle years such as myself to blow through 16 ounces of the salty (and sassy!) goo in about a month, even when everyone else in the house is kept from getting their hands on it by my keeping it hidden behind forgotten jars of oyster sauce.
Maybe the fault lies with the purveyors of the fatty paste, who urge irresponsible consumption by stating, right on their label, to “spread with gusto.” Where will they be when I check myself into rehab in order to wean myself off the addictive, mashed up nut matter?
If I were your lawyer, I’d strongly recommend you share this peanut butter with no one, lest you find it empty and thrown in the recycling bin. And get a lot of it! For crying out loud, I was in Cape May this summer, when I could have stocked up.
Of course, online shopping is just a few clicks away, but one must ask if a 32 ounce jar is really worth $12? (Of course it is!)
I suppose, before making such a rash purchase I should grab another brand of natural peanut butter from my local supermarket and see if adding a little sea salt oomph will do the trick
I’ll explore and report back.
I’ve always been suspicious of mustaches. They sneak onto faces unannounced and try to act inconspicuous, but even in their infancy they are impossible to ignore. The man who can sport one while his cheeks and chin remain clean-shaven should immediately be interrogated to determine if he has broken through the space/time continuum without a valid permit. He is more suited to the 1970s era of tight slacks and polyester shirts open to the navel than to the 2000-teens, where gents pair high-end suits with white sneakers and stubble uniformly distributed across the face. So what is this foreigner doing invading our present?
I’ve come to believe that he’s been sent by aliens to irritate us, and by that I don’t mean the illegal sort on whom Donald Trump is trying to pin all of our nation’s ills. If he were controlled by illegals, you’d more likely see him scraping the paint off our houses and picking our fruit while looking suspiciously like Freddie Mercury. The aliens who’ve sent him are the kind who live in deep space and have the ability to control the minds of 30 and 40-something men, telling them they can reinvent their look if they simply avoid shaving the area just below their noses. My Dad was controlled by one of these evil spacemen while he was recovering from one of his several “mild” heart attacks, and the caterpillar that appeared on his face failed to capture the imagination of us kids; it was gone after a month. Meanwhile, the space aliens had a good chuckle. Years later, Jason Giambi, the steroid-gulping Yankee slugger, tried on an extremely furry “stash” of his own. Unfortunately, he looked like he oiled it up with Crisco each morning. My sister called it “gross,” and she was a Yankee fan.
Now we have Brock Holt, the Red Sox player whose main job is to be the primary backup at every position on the field. He looks no less silly than my Dad and Jason Giambi, but on the other hand, he is not to blame. The mind of the “Brock Star” will one day be released from the grip of wicked beings from far off galaxies, and out will come the razor. To my mind, it can’t happen soon enough.
Although summer is not over for a few more weeks, it’s not too early to make some under-educated declarations, based on my own anecdotal experiences, about the season that soon will be in the past. Obviously, this would have been an excellent summer for baking adobe brick. The fact that we don’t use adobe in New England is neither here nor there. You don’t find laborers in Indonesia wearing Nikes, but they still make the shoes and send them to us.
It was also the perfect summer for hanging clothes on the line and then forgetting about them and leaving them out for days, as there was very little chance of rain or dew interfering with the drying process.
If you needed experience hauling around heavy, unwieldy objects, this was just the summer for you. Few things are quite as heavy and unwieldy as 10,000 BTU air conditioners, which many people needed to buy to keep up with the blazing July heat. Now you can add this new skill to your LinkedIn account.
Finally, cactus farming: you’ve always wanted to try your hand at it, and if at last you pur your mind to it these last few months, you’d have been very happy and conceivably even quite wealthy.
Now that fall is nearly upon us, I predict that this one will be really good for people who have grown tired of all the loud autumnal colors. Brown is the new red, orange, and yellow. Enjoy.
After consulting with my handlers regarding how to raise my public profile, I’ve decided to start a new regimen of steak and eggs consumption each and every Sunday.
I know you think I’ll fail at this. “Pat McVay can’t eat two eggs a week with any consistency,” you’ll write in your blog (which no one reads, I’m sorry to have to tell you), "so how can he be expected to successfully add steak to the mix?" But your opinion about my beef-n-fowl repasts turns out to be totally uninformed, as you’ve never actually seen me eat eggs, let alone steak and eggs, because you have never been in my house on Sunday morning when I’ve been in training for this new program.
That’s about to change. I’m building a special glass pod off my kitchen where I can eat steak and eggs while reading the paper, and people like you can watch me from the sidewalk as I ignore you. In fact, I might just videotape myself being watched as I eat steak and eggs and don’t make eye contact with anyone, then will sell copies of the video of my steak and egg eating art.
I do believe I’ve solved the mystery of how to pay for my kids’ college educations.