Logic is a funny thing. Damn good thing too, ’cause this here’s a funny paper, and I wouldn’t want you to feel cheated. Actually, I don’t care what you feel. I don’t even care if you read this tripe. “My,” you might be thinking (assuming you did that), “that’s quite illogical. Here he is, writing a piece to be read by others, yet not caring how it impacts them, or even if they attempt to peruse said work.” And you’d be correct. You might even be right. You might even like Pat Buchanan. But that brings me to my point. What, so early in a work appearing in a T.J. Monkey’s publication? I have found that my logic isn’t compatible with that of Spock, Holmes (Sherlock or John), or even your average supermarket designer.
Conventional logic starts with p’s and q’s. Ok, sure, what the heck, me too. Someone tells you to mind your p’s and q’s. You know what it means, but you don’t know what it means, know what I mean? So you settle into an armchair, an iron maiden, a tortoise shell, light up a pipe (tobacco), light up a pipe (crack), or light up a pipe (lead), whatever tickles your fancy. You might come up with pyrites and quartzites, prawns and quahogs, Pitfalls and Q-Berts. You would be wrong. Little known facts: geologists, British shellfish vendors, and Atari aficionados are terrible at logic. Maybe you hit upon pints and quarts. Have a cookie, you’re right (thanks Seth). It all stems from English pubs, and the pints and quarts refer to the quaint, outdated way of measuring the volume of alcoholic brews those sillies still use. (Notice subtle dig at American standards of measurement. Today volume, tomorrow weights. You’re going down, slug.) Imagine, however, you’re a direct descendent of Molly Pitcher, or you’re a member of a small Asian population subset deficient in acetaldehyde dehydrogenase. Do you think you’d come up with pints and quarts? Yes, maybe if you just bought ice cream or if you teach elementary school math. But other than that? I think you know the answer. A big fat, juicy (but not soggy), “maybe” with shallots and a white wine sauce under glass with a twist.
Still with me? Great. Join me now as I wander the aisles of a certain supermarket. We’ll call it “Croger” to retain its anonymity. Cool Whip. I need Cool Whip. Nothing but Cool Whip can satisfy my need for faux dairy products. Coffeemate is right out. So I look in the diary aisle, next to the “cheese food product” and the ozone safe yogurt. No dice. Maybe by the ice creams. Logic at work here, people. But today, on the Common Sense Battle Ground, our hero does not win. The formidable foe known as Inanity (no s on purpose) prevails. Ok, not by the dairy or the ice cream freezer. Fruit? People put it on fruit. Nope. Snack cakes, maybe? Negatory. Plastic spoons? You can eat it with a spoon. Sorry, please try again. Hell, pasta, canned meat, magazines, shampoo, frozen peas, beer? Wait! Go back one. Yeah, right there, between Birds Eye and The Jolly Green Giant. Bingo. Should have thought about that before. Nothing makes cauliflower more palatable than Cool Whip. Logic; that slippery eel of thought processes.
Obviously the fine people of “Croger” have one up on me. So I stopped trying to be logical. For example, see how the first part of this piece has little to do with the second? I’m quite proud of that, although I know I can do better.
Waterzooi is a Flemish stew made of fish or chicken and vegetables in a seasoned stock thickened with cream and egg yolks.