As I lay on the couch dying these last two days I’ve been catching up on an endless parade of tivo as well as contemplating life’s mysteries as revealed to me by Jerry Springer, Maury Povich and the vastly under-appreciated Tyra Banks, who’s whose expose on people in love with inanimate objects was, I must say, head and shoulders above Springer’s misanthropic yet insightful Mystery of the Missing Panties. But if I’ve learned anything while drifting in and out of hallucinations over the past 72 hours it is this one simple truth hammered home by an ever-wise momma and a big bottle of antibiotics. A trope for the ages, consider it my holiday gift to you because it holds up to being necessarily repeated more times than It’s A Wonderful Life: meat marked Manager’s Special means rancid; it will get you every time.
Yes, Clarence, I confess: I’ve been done in by my own poison meatballs.
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