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LJ Idol Introduction
Nov. 19th, 2015 08:46 pmPicard bought bologna from the grocery store, but it had a grey tinge right below the label. He noticed it as soon as he put his groceries away and attempted to make a sandwich. Bologna containers all work the same way--peel off the back of the plastic, grab exactly two slices to set on white bread, put mayonnaise on it, push the plastic back in place, store it with the plastic lid face down. When Picard did this, the bologna flopped against the backing and revealed the patch of apparent rot that ran in a crescent moon shape under the lid. It looked like a birthmark on his inner thigh. Shuddering, Picard set the sandwich on a paper towel, folded the paper towel like gift wrap, and dropped the whole sandwich into the trash.
When Picard brought the bologna to Customer Service at the grocery store, which he did immediately with a perfectly unwrinkled receipt in tow, the counter worker leaned over and whispered into her manager's ear discreetly, making Picard imagine what having a gentle breeze with a little spittle directly inside his ear would feel like.
"Excuse me," Picard motioned, setting the bagged bologna on the counter in front of the clerk.
"Yes, just a moment," the woman working the counter replied. Then she and her manager walked into a back room, closed the door, locked it, and left Picard with the bad bologna and carefully maintained receipt right at the counter top. He stayed there and waited at least twelve minutes before walking home.
I am not Picard. I have no restraint about eating around the bad parts. If they smell right, I may even eat the bad parts.
I am Fodschwazzle, which means "pocket monsters," but not like a famous Japanese brand of a card game turned multi-million dollar video game line means "pocket monsters." It's an onomatopoeia. It's the sound of reaching into a pocket and finding only the slippery tentacles of the abyss to slather your fingertips in tentasauce, which is sauce for tentacles and similar to oyster sauce with a little less salt.
I am not Picard, but when I walk home I am going to leave the bad bologna right on the counter top at Customer Service. I'm going to wad the receipt viciously. I'm going to pretend that the crescent moon shape of gray meat under the label is magical and lucky.
I hope we have a good time writing together.
When Picard brought the bologna to Customer Service at the grocery store, which he did immediately with a perfectly unwrinkled receipt in tow, the counter worker leaned over and whispered into her manager's ear discreetly, making Picard imagine what having a gentle breeze with a little spittle directly inside his ear would feel like.
"Excuse me," Picard motioned, setting the bagged bologna on the counter in front of the clerk.
"Yes, just a moment," the woman working the counter replied. Then she and her manager walked into a back room, closed the door, locked it, and left Picard with the bad bologna and carefully maintained receipt right at the counter top. He stayed there and waited at least twelve minutes before walking home.
I am not Picard. I have no restraint about eating around the bad parts. If they smell right, I may even eat the bad parts.
I am Fodschwazzle, which means "pocket monsters," but not like a famous Japanese brand of a card game turned multi-million dollar video game line means "pocket monsters." It's an onomatopoeia. It's the sound of reaching into a pocket and finding only the slippery tentacles of the abyss to slather your fingertips in tentasauce, which is sauce for tentacles and similar to oyster sauce with a little less salt.
I am not Picard, but when I walk home I am going to leave the bad bologna right on the counter top at Customer Service. I'm going to wad the receipt viciously. I'm going to pretend that the crescent moon shape of gray meat under the label is magical and lucky.
I hope we have a good time writing together.
