26 July 2006

Cauliflower Power

I like the stuff, especially raw. The rest of the household is not keen on it (save the dog, but his favourite snacks are the tootsie rolls that are to be had from the cat box), so I bought a bag of florets to eat at work.

I recalled bagging the cauliflower at the store, but they were absent from the bags when I unpacked at home. A mystery, yes, but not one of enough import to fever the imaginations of future historians. I promptly forgot about it.

Monday morning came as Monday mornings will, with the sickly perspiration of used ethanol and despair. I staggered int the harsh sunlight and opened the truck door, only to be greeted with a wall of vileness; like the unholy cabbage and Buckfast flatus of an obese, decomposing wino.

The dog has this sort of infernal power, but usually reserves its use for family dinners. I could safely rule him out. Gretchen too, as she was gone over the weekend. Who, then?

A brief search identified the culprit; the errant cauliflower. It was no longer a cheerful white, but a baleful and sickly mottled greenish-brown. The cellophane packet was taut, distended by the unholy thing waiting to be born.

I could not dispose of this in our garbage, as the neighborhood would be uninhabitable should the bag burst. No, I would have to dispose of this in a brilliantly engineered, hermetically sealed, steel box of the type that only the Germans can produce. Lucky for me, I had one at my disposal. I could rest easy.

The day proved a scorcher and late in the afternoon, an indignant Irish Bob came to my office.

“My Mercedes smells like Beelzebub has purged the very bowels of hell into it!” he said in an accusatory tone. I didn't look up from the porn concealing spreadsheet.

“You really ought to bathe more often, Bob” I replied blandly. “You are fouling the air.”

“No, some bastard put a bag of rotten veggies in my car and it burst.” He said, again, with the hairy eyeball.

“Must have been the skate punks” I replied unsympathetically. “Their sort of petty vandalism exactly why I lock my truck.”

Despite admonitions to the contrary, the skate punks like to come here to thrash. I like to thrash skate punks, so we have a perfect little cyclic yin and yang thingy going on, marred only by the police who do not share my Tao.

Unenlightened bastards.

Bob glared at me for a bit. “Skate punks?”

“Yep. I saw them out there this morning. Looked furtive. Chased them off, but I'll bet they snuck back”

Bob went outside to look for the culprits.

Alas, they proved elusive and poor Irish Bob had no outlet at which to vent his spleen. When I left that evening, he was screaming at the seagulls that were wheeling about over his auto.

Just another day in paradise.

And that's the way I likes it.