Do I know you?

Do I know you?

Have you ever been hanging out with a good friend, family member, loved one, significant other, or some other combination signifying that you know the other person very well, and have known them for quite some time? Then one day, as you are in the middle of a conversation with them, they come up with something so incredibly random and out of character that the only logical reaction is to say, “Do I know you?” Another variant of this is, “Ok, who are you and what have you done with the real (insert name of the person you are talking to)?”

I managed to have this happen twice last week with none other than my sweetie-baby-cutie-pie. The first incident occurred while we were in her car going out to dinner. As we were going over how each others day had gone up to that point, which is a pretty standard practice for when we both get home at the end of the day. Well, in the middle of her telling me about her meetings that day, and going over her schedule for getting ready to leave town for two weeks, she suddenly shifts topic and says, “I ate a hot dog for lunch. I know I’m trying to steer clear of meat, but my justification for it was hot dogs really aren’t made of meat. So it’s technically ok.”

And yes the first thing out of my dumbfounded self was, “Do I know you?”

“I know!” was really all she could come up for in her defense.

I did find it a little comforting that she was just as shocked by her actions as I was. It was clear that there was no rhyme or reason for it. She is so consistently opposed to the American version of the hot dog (bratwurst, usually chick filled is acceptable to her) that the consumption of one is kind of like going to dinner with a vegan and having them order a rare steak wrapped in bacon with a side of squid salad, and Spam flavored ice cream topped with caviar for dessert. She blames the odd craving on her childhood, and it rarely happens, but when it does it always catches us both off guard. We finished the conversation by laughing at the stranger in the car named Angela. And that was the end of our “Do I know you?” moment.

The other one that readily comes to mind also took place in her car. We were on our way to a friend’s birthday party (woo hoo Frank!) and as we were flipping through the radio stations Angela stopped at a song she knew and loved, and starting singing along. I’ve ‘Smirked’ about the topic of Angela’s singing ability before, and her cunning and consistent ability to sing along with the sounds instead of singing along with the actually lyrics of the song.

There were two things that left me a touch concerned that the woman in the car was a possible Angela impostor. First was the song… Sweet Child o’ Mine by 1980’s defining hard rock band ‘Rifles and Carnations’… I mean ‘Gun N’ Roses’. The second thing is that she knew all the words, and belted them out with the same fervor as someone who is singing in the shower, or alone in their car. I just drove, baffled as she sang though the whole song. Then as the next song started, within the first three seconds of the song, she comments, “Ooo, Barracuda,” then after noticing my look added, “… by Heart.”

“Who are you really?” I asked.

She just laughed and changed the station.

Neither was major in any way, the exact opposite really. It’s just those random 180 moments that catch you a bit off guard, and make you rub your eyes to make sure that you are talking to the person you thought you were. Followed by a possible little pinch you give yourself to make sure you are not dreaming. Regardless though, they always seem to be quite entertaining, and well worth the unexpected laugh or two you get from them.

What are some of your “Do I know you?” moments?

Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: confused look, singing in car, and couple laughing.

The Grass is Always Greener

The Grass is Always Greener

I’ve heard this saying for years, and at times I myself have said it to others. As a philosophy, it makes absolutely no sense. I think that if people feel that way about their life it is a result of their own poor choices, which is solely their fault and then need to own that and move past it. If they try to compare their grass to someone else, then that is clearly one of the key problems they suffer from and need to work on.

Today though, I am referring to this saying in a very literal… archaic translation, but literal all the same. Instead of literal, let’s go with a loose translation. I’ll get to that literal portion in a minute. The thing is, I hate yard work, and by hate I mean hate hate. Much in the same way Attila the Hun hated people telling him to use a napkin and utensils when he would eat. Yard work has always been that daunting task that loomed overhead when the weekend rolled around. This included things like weeding, trimming trees, planting flowers, edging, and the always tedious mowing of the lawn.

I don’t mind the outdoors, and I’m always fascinated by the raw beauty of nature. It’s just as a participant there in I usually try my best to stay clear of direct sunlight when I’m experiencing nature due to a skin condition. I believe the Latin’s call it sunburnus alloverus easilus. The invention of SPF enriched goo’s and creams have helped legions of people with the same skin condition exist and interact more in naturesque shade-free areas. I mean what did we have before that? Coconut oil, and all that did was make you smell really good when you would get sun cooked while wearing it, causing those less evolved and nostril motivated to want to eat you.

I know that for some, yard work is the cat’s meow, the marshmallow in your rice crispy treat, or the Bailey’s in your White Russian. It’s like seeing a bear in its natural habitat… a Studebaker. (I watched the Muppet Show recently and have been wanted to use that line ever since.) I for one am very grateful for people like that. Mainly because it allows me to hire someone to do something they love, so that I can avoid doing something I hate. It’s a rather brilliant exchange, one of which I have just started to partake in after all these years of begrudgingly working in the yard. It’s clear my yard knows how I feel about caring for it. It’s clear to everyone on my block, because it’s burned, withered, and tarnished. So believe me when I tell you that in my neighborhood the grass really is quite literally greener on the other side of the fence.

Now some people might consider yard work one of those must dos when they become a home owner. It might even be one of those relationship expectations, commonly expected to be completed bi-weekly by the more masculine in the relationship. Well if that’s the case, I say put a bow in my hair and call me Ethel. Fortunately my cutie-baby-sweetie-pie and I share the intense abrasion toward working on, in, or around our yard. So with our new yard guy it’s amazing how joyous we have become by simply giving that task to someone else who is happy to do it.

It removes any grumbling about mowing the lawn, or “I did it last week, it’s your turn this week” or any pointless petty conversations that can arise because we both feel the same way about yard work. Some might grumble about the cost, but seriously $60 a month for not only peace of mind, but the joy that comes with the knowledge that you don’t have to do it is more than worth it. Besides, the 2+ hours it would take me to work on the lawn is now 2+ hours I can spend working on my book(s), or even writing a weekend Smirk for others to read and get a giggle or two from.

If you hate yard work as much as I do, hire it out, trust me on this. You will be amazed at the joy it can bring into your life, and you’ll thank you, the person you hire will thank you, your partner will thank you, and your lawn will thank you, which is a lot of thanks for a relatively simple and effective solution.

What are you feelings about yard work?

Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: grass is greener, tan lines, Fozzy in Studebaker, and jumping for joy.

The Death Wish Fish

The Death Wish Fish

I was reading a friend’s story a while ago about her pet goldfish who had a high jumping fetish. Jumping so high that landing back in its bowl stopped becoming a viable option. The story ended with her finding the fish laying on the floor one morning and her attempt to save if by getting it back in its bowl. It eventually revived, but it’s near death experience had cured it of its Evel Knievel ways.

There is a statistic that I once heard about goldfish, something about them having a three second or three minute memory… I have no idea if it’s true, but from what I recall there was a three in there somewhere. This may help to explain the incessant fascination goldfish have with the bubbles coming out of that scuba guys treasure chest.

I would like to point out that I am not the only person that has heard this fishy claim from someone else. Even the anti-folk folk singer (which is one of the most confusing music genres I’ve had the pleasure of listening to so far) Ani DiFranco has dedicated lyrics about this very topic. Take her song Little Plastic Castle where she sings in verse two:

“They say goldfish have no memory,
I guess their lives are much like mine,
and the little plastic castle
is a surprise every time,
and it’s hard to say if they’re happy,
but they don’t seem much to mind.”

Cute, catchy, and how that applies to anti-folk, I have no idea. So, is it true? According to Ani “they” think so. Who are “they”? “They” are the “they” that think goldfish don’t remember things. “They” are so sure of this that “they” even have managed to get song lyrics dedicated to share “they’s” belief on it. I, however, am not sold on the idea.

My hesitation to accept this claim begins back in 1994 when I was a broke college student in Northwestern Wyoming. Actually it began five hours away from the college, in a stranger’s house in one of the towns south of Yellowstone National Park. I had made some new friends at school who invited me to join them for a weekend of rock climbing. Being recently smitten with rock climbing, it sounded like an adventure worth having. First thing Saturday morning we were on the road.

Bonnie, the one who invited me, had a friend living in the area we were going to. She had talked to them and they had offered to let us crash at their place for the night. There are two things that stand out in my memory of Bonnie’s friends place. First, they had a keg on tap in their basement. Second, it was my first and only experience with a death wish fish.

After a full day of climbing everyone was exhausted, so falling asleep in a sleeping bag on a rug on a hard concrete floor was not nearly as difficult as one might thing. The friends had a 55-gallon fish tank in the basement, and their pride and joy was a gold fish they had caught in the wild. There was a small spring filled lake in the region, which, because of the spring water coming up from the ground, always stays the same temperature all year around. Even in the middle of winter. Because it was a fresh water lake and always the same temperature people in the area (who had pet fish) had taken to the practice of releasing their pet fish into the lake when they would move away. These friends had gone to this lake to check it out, and ended up bringing home the gold fish in their thermos.

It was a good sized goldfish, about three inches long, but I don’t think it ever took to being back in captivity after being set free. I think this because of the manner in which I was woken up that Sunday morning. I remember hearing what sounded like a wet thump, kind of like the noise a plunger makes when you push it down after it is completely saturated with toilet water… only much quieter, like maybe if it were the toilet in Malibu Barbie’s Dream House. The oddness of the sound got me to open my eyes, but was not enough for me to keep them open. It was only when I noticed a barrage of soft wet flopping sounds that a trigger went off in my head that something was not quite right.

I opened my eyes again and this time sat up and scanned the room. There, about four feet away from me and about two feet from the fish tank was the captive goldfish flopping around on the ground. I looked over to the couch where Bonnie was sleeping and loudly whispered, “Hey Bonnie, their fish!”

“What?” she mumbled as she half opened her eyes.

“The fish made a break for it. Look. Over there,” I told her as I pointed in the direction of the fish.

As she looked over and saw the fish her eyes popped open with a sense of urgency. “Quick, grab it and put back in the tank,” she told me, which sounded a little like a yell because only because we had been whispering and had just woken up, but was actually just her normal talking volume.

It was a request that had never been asked of me before. There are some questions in life that you run through in your mind a few times. This is so you can give them the proper amount of thought. Then, if a situation occurs that results in the question to be asked, you can feel confident with giving your response. This, however, was not one of those times. I had to make a decision on the fly, a fishes life was at stake! So I muttered the first thing that came to my mind, “No. I don’t touch wet fish.”

Bonnie blinked twice, jumped out of her sleeping bag, rushed over to the fish. She scooped it up in her hands, walked over to the tank, and dropped it back in. After making sure the lid was down, she went back to the couch. As she climbed back into her sleeping bag and nestled back down I heard her finally say, “You don’t touch wet fish?” and then started laughing.

A few hours later we were all back up and loading the car to head back to school. Bonnie, after confirming the whole fish thing was not a dream, recited the story to everyone in the house, giggling the whole time at my “I don’t touch wet fish” claim. Everyone laughed and her friends thanked Bonnie for saving their fish… again. Turns out this fish tried to make a dash to freedom at least once a month. Bonnie has been witness to its attempt once before and had put it back in the tank that time as well. Feeding time is its favorite time to make its freedom leap. It had learned that it gets much farther when the top doors are open.

The friends just figured that it was a crazy fish, but I think it just wanted to go back to its lake and be free. Maybe it remembered its time there, and knew that life in a basement, even with a keg on tap, was nothing but a claustrophobic cell when compared to a natural spring lake, full of other orphan fish that had found a home and a family.

Side Note: This whole thing got me thinking about goldfish memory, so I did a little research. According to Wikipedia, which is really just the ramblings of anyone who thinks they know what they are talking about, here is what it said about the memory of a goldfish:

“Goldfish have a memory-span of at least three months…” It goes on to say, “Goldfish can learn tricks, such as the limbo, slalom, fetch and soccer, using positive reinforcement training techniques.”

… I have no idea! Seriously, how do you play fetch with your goldfish? Do you take it to the beach, put it in the water, and throw a tiny Frisbee into the water for it go get and bring back to you? And soccer? Soccer!? No offense, but if I refuse to touch a wet fish I’m certainly not going to kick one. Oh Wikipedia… you and your pretend specialists. Thank you for that.

So, any of you have any high jumping, death wish fish stories of your own?

Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: goldfish, little plastic castle, rock climbing, goldfish on floor, and I don’t touch goldfish.

Do I know you?

Doug Did so you Don’t Have To

When working as an Assistant Pastry Chef as a resort in Jackson Wyoming, I worked with a curious man named Doug. We only worked together a few months, but Doug turned out to be one of those characters in life that I will always remember. He was the Pastry Chef that I worked under and was a little, well, let me put it like this, Doug was the closest thing to a reincarnation of Gene Wilder’s performance of Willy Wonka than anyone I have ever, or imagine will ever meet.

Doug was an average height, with naturally ratty-frizzy hair, or it just came across that way because he never did his hair. He also had round wire-rim glasses that framed his thin-blue eyes. Because we worked in the kitchen, we were required to wear a uniform that the resort was kind enough to supply. It consisted of a floppy top chef’s hat, with a white chef’s smock, and black and white checkered pants. Doug took full advantage of this and had not purchased a new pair of pants in over three years. He always wore his chef pants, when working or just going out with friends. Any time they began to wear too thin, he’d just pick up a new pair or two and take them home. The only exception I can think of is when we would go to disco night and he would get dressed up in his favorite secondhand 70s disco garb to go out dancing.

One of the main things I remember about Doug is that he was always offering up little lessons about life. Lesson’s that you would think were common sense, but turned out to be the type of things that apparently he needed to learn firsthand. He was usually so profoundly surprised by these lessons that he would always approach the telling of these lessons with much heartfelt earnest. Feeling that if he could save just one person from making the same mistake he had then life would have been worth living.

Some lessons were very career oriented. For instance things like how to rummage for pots and pans as loudly as possible while cursing profusely. The trick about using baker’s profanity is that it couldn’t sound much like profanity. He introduced me to the use of glottal stops mixed with open larynx yells that could carry vowels and consonants blended together in what sounded a bit like a sick badger getting poked with a spoon. But as long as you started the profanity out with the correct letter sound and clearly pronounced the ending letter, it was considered properly executed baker’s cursing. Apparently, according to Doug, baking is 70% cursing, 20% following the recipe, and 10% remembering to set the timer. In a kitchen, bakers are considered the crazy ones and Doug was very determined not to let me fail that stereotype.

The one lesson that I inevitability share with everyone is his warning about dating psychology majors… but more than that, it was mostly a lesson her learned while dating one. We were working on some fruit tortes, getting them ready for an upcoming Sunday brunch and out of nowhere Doug started with, “Rich, don’t ever… I mean ever, talk about your girlfriend’s mom when you’re making out… with her not her mom I mean.” He didn’t even pause what he was doing.

The statement, however, stopped me in my tracks. The torte was going to have to wait a little while. “I imagine it’s a little difficult to say anything like that when making out,” I replied, “regardless who you are making out with.”

“Well, let’s say in the between moments of making out.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

So Doug started telling me about when he was in college, and a psychology major he had been dating for about two months. Things had taken a few steps towards being a bit more serious than just the occasional booty call. It had even gone so far that he was invited to dinner with her parents when they had been visiting. They were definitely tipping the scales of entering into a relationship.

“One night when I was over at her place we started getting into it a little while on her couch, which was always the foreplay area of her apartment. Well, I had managed to get out of my shirt and all of a sudden, in mid kiss, she stops, pulls back and with a sultry smile asks me if she could ask a question. I told her she already had, but she stopped me and said she was serious.”

He told me that she then explained that she had been learning about the differences between the male and female psyche and learned in one of her books that it was common for men to fantasize about other women during sex.

“Ohhh, this is going to a bad place.” I said to Doug.

“I know! It caught me completely off guard, but there was the prospect that we’d be having sex at the end to I let her keep talking.”

“How could you think that things would end that way?”

“Every night that we spent kissing on her couch had always ended with sex. I didn’t have any reason to believe that that night would end any differently.” He sighed, and continued explaining that she had asked him who he had thought about while they were having sex.

“Is that even true? I mean… she WHAT?”

“Yeah all matter-of-factly, saying the book said it was common for men, like puberty, or breathing, or only cooking cheese stuffed croissants for 30 minutes in a convection oven at 375 or you’ll burn them. Still I went with my initial gut instinct and told her that I only thought about her.”

“And?”

“It didn’t work, no matter how many times I told her. I said over and over again, ‘No baby, I only think about you.’ but she kept telling me she knew differently. Her book had a whole chapter about the very topic. After about twenty minutes of going back and forth she started to get a little annoyed that I wouldn’t tell her. All the while adding that she knew it was what men did and she just wanted to know who I had thought about. She told me it was fine and she was not going to get mad. She ended every sentence with that. Always reminding me that she was not going to get mad.”

“Did she get mad?”

“I began to lose my determination for telling her over and over again, ‘Only you. I only think about you.’ I started to think that maybe if I gave her an answer everything would relax and we could get back down to business. So I started thinking about who I might, or even could, think about while having sex with her. A name did eventually come to me, but I wasn’t sure.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, ok so I asked her if she’d promise not to get mad. And she reminded me that the whole thing was her idea, reminding yet again that she would not get mad. I asked again just to make sure, ‘Now honey you really promise you won’t get made if I tell you.’ and in the most annoyed her voice had sounded all night told me that she had already said that and to just tell her. So I said, ‘Well, not that it ever happens, but maybe if I had to pick someone that I possibly might, but it never would, but if it did… and remember you promised not to get mad, but well, I maybe, sort of, could have, if I had to, maybe… but I’d never, but maybe I could… well sort of, um, well, you know, maybe your mom.”

My mouth dropped open, but nothing would come out.

“I’ve never had an evening end so abruptly in my entire life,” he added in a tone of pure flabbergasted surprise. “She was really mad!”

I just started laughing. Doug began smiling, but it was the little kid smile where they tell you something in complete seriousness, but it strikes everyone listening as so funny that everyone begins to laugh and the little kid begins smiling in an effort to fit in, but are a little confused about what was so funny. Then I told Doug, “I promise I will never tell any woman, ever, anywhere, ever, that I fanaticize about their… you realize that this is another one of those things you need to put on your list of things to talk to a shrink about should you ever get one.”

“Yeah maybe, but I figure it’s an important enough lesson that I should share it with others first.”

“Thanks Doug,” I chuckled. “Lesson learned.” And soon we were back to work.

Even though I’ve completely lost contact with Doug, he is one of those characters in my life that I’ll never forget. It’s been over fifteen years now since he shared that story with me, and that’s how long I’ve been sharing it with others. It’s worth the telling and has a moral that I feel will never grow old, because as long as there is someone out there that it willing to ask that kind of question, there is going to be someone like Doug that is going to be willing to answer it. So please, feel free to share this story with others, so we can help protect the Doug’s of the world.

Do any of you have any “Doug-ish” stories of your own?

Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: willy wonka, Swedish chef, make out on a couch, and couple arguing on couch.

Do I know you?

A Five Year Old Reason for Not Liking Fish

It’s funny how our brains cycle through things. I have a list to subjects that I will be writing about at some point… probably, most of them definitely, with a few maybes. The thing is as a result of the few pieces I did on little people my brain has started pulling up more little people storied that I have in the story database in my mind. Of all these stories coming to mind, today I find myself sharing another story of about a friend’s kid, which always puts a smile on my face. And again, out of respect for their privacy, I’ll be changing a few names.

This little story took place about 8 years ago, in Logan Utah, when both my friend Hanson and I were going to school at Utah State University. Hanson and I have been friends for a long time, so it was nice when we eventually both ended up at the same university. By this point in his life, Hanson had familyified himself, err… well he has started a family I mean. He was already married and had two adorable olive skinned girls by this point in his life. Hanson’s wife is full blooded Argentinean and was kind enough to pass along her pigmently enriched flesh tones over to her children. Hanson has always been grateful for this, due to his personal experiences being pigmently challenged and spending a lifetime wearing hats or bathing in SPF 45 before going outside to play.

So one evening, while we went out enjoying some sushi at the only sushi restaurant in town, he relayed this little story to me about his oldest daughter Elise, who was four or five at the time. Elise had been playing over at a friend’s house earlier that week. As is often the case with little people playing outside for an afternoon, there is a placed between lunch and dinner that kids find themselves famished and waiting until dinner is usually a suggestion met by much hostility, a little whining, stomping, flailing about, screaming, and more often than not, tears.

When Elise’s friend, Janet, told her mom that she was hungry her mother took this as a perfect opportunity to avoid fighting with her daughter and told her she would fix something for her and Elise. Fish sticks were the first thing that popped into her mind, because she knew Janet would eat them. Janet’s mom then asked Elise if she would like some fish sticks.

“No.” said Elise. Then after thinking for a moment added, “Brown people don’t like fish.”

Janet’s mom was a little unprepared for this and asked, “What do you mean Elise?”

“Well, my dad’s white and he likes fish, and my mom’s brown and she doesn’t like fish, and I’m brown and I don’t like fish, and my little sister Anna is brown, and she doesn’t like fish either. So brown people don’t like fish.”

“Ok,” Laughed Janet’s mom, “I’ll fix you something else.”

“Thank you.”

Janet’s mom then walked into the house, over to the phone, and called Elise’s mom to share Elise’s logic as to why brown people don’t like fish.

Hanson and I had a good laugh about that one. We marveled at Elise’s process of logic based on her limited access to information. Even thought it was an extremely inaccurate statement, based on her current knowledge base about fish and brown people and her deduction based on that, she was 100% correct. Hence the logic of a five year old, always exercising their right and determination to be right, even if they are wrong, in a way, they are still right. And in a way, even as adults, I think we all have moments like that from time to time. Thinking we’re right, even when we’re wrong, but based on what we think we know, we’re still right… No matter how much we change, sometimes we’re all still the same.

What are some of your child logic experiences?

Image Source:
Google Images, key words: cursing kid, fish sticks, and no fish.

Do I know you?

Utah… Sometimes you just have to say you’re sorry.

With Utah’s birthday coming up, July 24th to be exact, I thought I‘d get a little jump on the topic of Utah. I have a great deal of appreciation for my state, and by state I mean Utah, the state I live and not my mental state… although the same could be said for that as well. Utah is quite diverse, geographically speaking. When you begin talking about the people, a lot of the diversity is a result of visitors, and people experiencing layovers at the air port.

Still, when you look at the land, Utah does have some beautiful national parks, forests and mountain ranges. Some are teeming with evergreens, rushing rivers and speckled with red and orange stone, arch carved and always thirsty for water. In the northern part of the state you can always expect a nice ensemble of seasons.

Apart from the raw breathtaking beauty of the state, there are also little nuggets that seem to help others appreciate the state as well. Things like snow, for those of the winter sport inclined. The Sundance Film Festival brings with it a spotlight and red carpet for Utah once a year. We even have a professional soccer team, oh yeah, and a basketball team that was relocated from New Orleans decades ago… which explains their name, because let’s face it one of the things Utah is not known for is their Jazz, well they are, just not in the Louis Armstrong sense of the word.

Then there are the things about Utah that you are a little unprepared for. Things like the Gilgal Sculpture Garden. As a standalone name for a garden it’s rather opinion free. When you find out there is a sculpture of a Sphinx there that has the head of Joseph Smith, you begin shacking your head in much the same way you might shake up an Etch-a-Sketch when you need to start over again on your picture. Joseph Smith was the chap that created the LSD religion, the dominant religion for the state. To make a comparison, I guess you could say it would be a little like going into Vatican City and finding a garden with a sculpture of a giant Sphinx with the head of Saint Peter on it… ok so maybe there is one. I have no idea. I’ve never been to Vatican City. Still, either way it’s one of those things that strike you as a bit odd.

Or there is the unhealthy obsession and addiction that mainstream Utahans seem to have with Jell-O. I have no idea where this intense connection to a wiggly green gelatinous food-like substance comes from, but there is also an unrelenting impulse to put shredded carrots in it.

Then there are things that are just odd enough that you are compelled to say, “Yeah, started here in Utah, sorry about that!” A friend sent me an article this morning of one such event. The article made me want to take the time to let you know that we in Utah are sorry about this. I give you… the Candwich! A man by the name of Mark Kirkland, from Salt Lake City, Utah is going to be unleashing a product that is a sandwich in a can.

I was touch disturbed when I first saw this because the first place my mind went was that it was a thick puréed liquid that was supposed to taste like the picture on the can. You can all relax a bit, I read the article to make sure. It’s a meal stored in a can. It has all the makings for a sandwich they show on the front of the can, in the can. Take the strawberry PBJ one for example. The can contains a packet of peanut butter, a packet of strawberry jam, a bun in an air tight sealed bag, and a taffy treat. The peanut butter and jam ones seem harmless enough, as long as you avoid looking at all the preservatives placed in it to ensure it had a shelf life of over one year. Thus giving Twinkies a run for their money as the longest lasting food source after the apocalypse, which will probably be a result of releasing this product into the world?

Let’s just hope they don’t put the word fresh anywhere on the product. There is no way a one year old sandwich is going, that is of course unless it grows a hand while in the can and get a little flirty when you set it free for your own personal consumption.

The one that disturbs me and almost triggers a gag reflex in me if I think about it too much is the BBQ chicken one. Keeping BBQ chicken in a sealed bag that is stored in a can, which is not required to be chilled or refrigerated in any way and has a shelf life of one plus years… well you can call that a number of things, but I’m pretty sure chicken isn’t one of them. Even more disturbing is the thought that if it catches on you know they’ll be adding more and more flavors. I mean if it does catch on, what’s next? Maybe they really will start creating liquid meals for mass consumption, which only pushes us one step closer to the portrayal of humans in Pixar’s WALL-E.

When I think of the great things about this nearly rectangular state, I am proud of Utah. Still, when it comes to being the state that is remembered for giving the world the sandwich in a can, well, it does deflate some of that pride. I guess we’ll have to see where this ride ends. Until then we can always thank this state. For those of you that live here I recommend, “Thanks Utah, for being our home.” And to those of you not living here might I recommend, “Thanks Utah, for being you. So we don’t have too.”

What are your thought about the whole Candwich product?

Image Source:
Google Images, key words: Utah, Joseph Smith Sphinx, Candwich, and Wall-E humans.