Discussing politics and ketchup
Entry posted by Brian Wolfe
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Why can’t we discuss politics on the GMIC? It all has to do with ketchup.
Today my dear wife, Linda, wanted me to go into the City to exchange something or other; I wasn’t listening because I didn’t really want to go. Knowing this she suggested that we stop for breakfast in our small town first. She is a wise woman as she knows my fondness for breakfast meat, not to mention over-easy eggs. This would make me both cheap and easy. I would have been the most popular girl in school had I been born a female.
During breakfast I decided I required a small bit of ketchup for the sausages and in picking up the full bottle I realized that talking politics on the forum was just like what was about to take place. To be clear I am not clairvoyant, just a creature of habit and one who will repeat mistakes with an alarming regularity. The ketchup (or catsup if you prefer) bottles are always full at our local restaurant, the “Old Country Restaurant†or O.C. as we locals refer to it. We live in New Hamburg so we often meet up with friends at the O.C in N.H. It’s a small town thing.
Now for the political discussion comparison; one starts out gently patting the bottom of the bottle in an exercise in futility hopping that by some miracle the contents will flow out easily. When that doesn’t happen we all do the same thing, hit the bottle harder. Perhaps you bounce the neck of the bottle on your finger but the next step is always the same – apply more force. You might see if there is a knife by your plate, which has yet to be used and therefore clean, in order to insert in into the bottle. Thus producing an air space allowing the ketchup’s release from the effects of the bottle’s vacuum. Once in a while this works but most of the time all you end up with for your efforts is a knife covered with the red sauce all the way up the blade and well onto the handle. Now you’re getting a little hot under the collar, but still in control of your inner rage against the physics of a vacuum and Mother Nature herself fort having invented the dammed tomato in the first place. The bottle is now firmly grasped in your left hand and you start to strike the bottom of the bottle with the heel of your clenched right hand. Still nothing! At this point with your spouse showing signs of somewhere between embarrassment and disgust you lose all control. Beating the hell out of the bottle, uttering muffled statements that may or may not cross the line into blasphemy, while everyone in the restaurant looks on wide eyed. “Yes lady you heard me correctly now get over it and piss off!†you think as you notice that kindly eighty year old lady looking your way in shock. You’ve come to the point where you are committed, you will be the master of this bottle and its contents; this is the hill upon which you are will to die! You committed all of your resources and now it is you or the bottle, “No quarter, you’re going down you glass vessel from the lowest bowels of Hell itself!!!!!†RAGE, unadulterated rage!
Then without warning it happens, like some sort of demonic orgasm or an eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, the red thick sauce finally burst forward covering the largest area of your plate with half an inch of ketchup. The whole place is looking on witnessing your triumph yet missing the point entirely that you were victorious and your manhood is once again verified. Needless to say the trip, to the city and back, was very quiet indeed. Oh yes, here’s tip. If you find yourself in one of these situations where the silence emulating from your significant other is almost “deafening†do not; I repeat, do not, turn on the radio.
And this, my friends, is why we can’t discuss politics on the forum.
Regards
Brian
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