Tits and Tires
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When a young man turns sixteen a whole new world opens up to him. He can now legally drive a car. Dad said, “if you want to drive, buy your own car and pay for your own insurance.” It would have been nice to have known that when I was three so I could have saved up for the big event but no, he made that little announcement on my sixteenth birthday. At the time 1971, we had but one car, a 1960 Chevy station wagon that drove like a truck. No power anything. The thought of taking that gun boat on a date was less than appealing. So I went to work mowing lawns and what ever I could do to make a buck.
In addition to the lawn mowing, I had an opportunity to shovel the lead out of water traps for my Dad’s employer. The gun powder manufacturing and distribution company he worked for owned and operated the only indoor shooting range in town. The water traps were four feet deep, six feet wide, better than 100 feet long and there were two of them both needing to be emptied of lead. I was hired to clean them out. When I say something is heavy as lead I know what I am talking about. Once the traps drained I shoveled the lead from gazillions of spent rounds into buckets and loaded the very, very heavy buckets into the back of the station wagon. I was going to smelt the lead and make bullets in the basement. I worked two long days at “getting the lead out.” I also know the true meaning of that commonly used phrase. All totaled there was over 3200 pounds of lead.
Over the next several months I smelted lead and formed bullets in our basement. I made mostly .38 caliber bullets but did make a couple hundred pounds of .45 caliber. Even made some with brass jackets. All that lead, poured into bullet molds and sold back to the shooting range for the avid shooters that reloaded. Six months later I had enough money for a cheap car and enough for the insurance. Only I had to take a driver education class first and that fee set me back as did the need to replace Dad’s old Briggs and Stratton lawn mower, that I had totally used up. Dad was tough.
Then there was the realization that girls cost money. Fortunately, the folks grew tired of shuttling me and my dates so the old man coughed up the insurance fee and I was going to start driving. A second fortuitous wind fall occurred that winter as Dad was given a 1964 Lincoln Continental as a Christmas bonus. Hot damn charley I was picking up my dates in a Lincoln. She was jet black in color (the car that is) with 450 cubic inches of tire squealing power. The Lincoln was equipped with an over drive transmission that made ninety effortless. The song “Hot Rod Lincoln” by Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen was released the same week I was to drive the car on my first date. Get this, the song was originally written in 1955 by Charley Ryan, the same year I was born. It was destiny that I was King of the world. Everybody knew Butchwax was driving the “Hot Rod Lincoln.” When I cruised through all the teenage drive in hangouts, heads turned and people talked. The soft leather seats and the power windows made dinning at the drive-in a unique pleasure as well. I was the envy of every kid I knew. At first I was way too stupid to take full advantage but I would quickly learn the effect a fully loaded Lincoln sitting on tires had on the accessibility to tits. By the time I graduated high school I had seen more, fondled more tits than could possibly be imagined. I am in the union you know.
Unfortunately, there were those dads that felt I was a bit to rich to be associated with their daughter so dating was often times an act of futility as I was rejected at the door simply because I pulled up in a Lincoln. We were so far from rich it never crossed my mind I would be thought to be from money. Heck Dad barely made twenty grand a year and we ate liver and onions once a week because we had to. There again there were other parents who mistakenly thought I came from wealth and encouraged their daughter to…… “best be nice to that boy his Ma and Pa’s gots bucks.” Bras came off pretty enthusiastically on those dates. Older more worldly chicks became the focus.
The drive-in theater offered the Lincoln a chance to help the effort of bra removal; my move. I had the move down to a smooth flawless motion. Once parked at the weekly outdoor feature I hit the power seat control and reclined those soft leather seats to an irresistible romantic posture just as the first kiss was placed. The bra came off so easy it was like a hot knife though butter. My dates just couldn’t help themselves. It was then that I drew the connection of tits and tires as a combination that was made in heaven. The girls were swooned by the luxury and apt two fingered bra unhooking talent. That was the case until my head was fully connected to my neck.
You see anything with tits or tires is going to cause great strife in a man’s life as both cost large quantities of money to maintain, bring great heartache, result in frustration and may very well be the root cause of the all trouble the world over. I trust I don’t have to explain the obvious, wars over oil, fights over women, divorce lawyers and all. The two items are man’s greatest conundrums and they both drive world economy, think about it. They do.
It isn’t just oil, the world has a tit based economy as well. Just think of all the money associated to tits just in the medical related industries alone, not to mention magazines and what about how tits effect the insurance premiums we pay. Oh my god, let me not forget mentioning the advertisement industry and the products tits are used to sell. Tits are used… to sell tires. Radio is even benefited by tits, as man’s imagination runs wild at the sound of the female‘s voice which is attached to a pair that need to be tuned in. The list of linkage to cleavage is endless and exhaustive. It may have been unavoidable but how tires and tits were put together is something that primitive man didn’t worry about… I have to and wish it was not so.
As I have grown older I put less energy into tires and even less into tits as they both go flat after while. The one you drive comes with a radio, the other drives you and comes with a mouth you have to listen to. I like them both as necessary evils. What they independently do to me/ for me is unparalleled by any two other unlike objects in the universe and yet, they always seem to be connected some how.
I need them both terribly. I sometimes resent that fact, wish I was blind and rode a horse, completely eliminating both from my life. No fun in that, I guess I will have to take the good with the bad. Tits and tires, a guy can’t do without either and why should he.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
I am a Genius by S.E. Hicks
I am a Genius
By S.E. Hicks
I have never been one to stand on ceremony nor am I a person who feels a need to comply with society's designated traditions. Valentine’s Day is no exception. Everyday is Valentine’s Day at my house. I love my wife like nobody’s business and it isn’t. I tell her every day that I love her, tell her that she is pretty too. I have done so everyday we have been married and I mean it. Sure, I complain about her but she is my everything and the absolute very best partner a slob like me could ever hope for.
Due to a tiny level of obligation but primarily due to the fact I am flat broke and wanted a burger, I took my wife out for dinner this past Valentines Day. I took her to Burger King and it only cost me thirteen bucks. There were no other customers in the place the entire time we ate. No crowd, no waiting and plenty of easy parking to chose from. I wonder why? We could talk without having to shout, enjoyed the few lights of State Avenue, made goo goo eyes at each other while we ate all we wanted. It was like being in high school all over again. I told my wife if she used her imagination, broke the onion rings in half and pretended the half ring was a shrimp we could act as if we were having a fancy shrimp cocktail. Ketchup and tired fryer grease helped pull it off. Oddly enough she was thrilled with the evening. I’m thinking of making it a tradition. Although, the wife is not in total agreement.
The best part for me was just being out with her, not another soul around us. No pesky waiters. No obnoxious guests, no hectic cajoling annoyances from society, just me and my gal. One other little side note. The wife did not feel …obligated, if you know what I mean. So I didn’t have to put in another couple hours of labor late into the night. Just came home, ate a few chocolate truffles and went to our separate corners to sleep. You see after thirty years of marriage, a roll in the hay is better performed on a Saturday night. That is assuming of course I got the energy. Generally speaking, it just too much work. I am…… a genius.
After informing one of my good friends of my minor acheivement, he told me how he handled the holiday with his wife. He told me he heated up some instant pasta poured some canned pasta sauce on it, left it on the counter and went to bed before his wife came home from work. He said it only cost three bucks and he didn't have to go anywhere. I have in fact been humbled by the master.
By S.E. Hicks
I have never been one to stand on ceremony nor am I a person who feels a need to comply with society's designated traditions. Valentine’s Day is no exception. Everyday is Valentine’s Day at my house. I love my wife like nobody’s business and it isn’t. I tell her every day that I love her, tell her that she is pretty too. I have done so everyday we have been married and I mean it. Sure, I complain about her but she is my everything and the absolute very best partner a slob like me could ever hope for.
Due to a tiny level of obligation but primarily due to the fact I am flat broke and wanted a burger, I took my wife out for dinner this past Valentines Day. I took her to Burger King and it only cost me thirteen bucks. There were no other customers in the place the entire time we ate. No crowd, no waiting and plenty of easy parking to chose from. I wonder why? We could talk without having to shout, enjoyed the few lights of State Avenue, made goo goo eyes at each other while we ate all we wanted. It was like being in high school all over again. I told my wife if she used her imagination, broke the onion rings in half and pretended the half ring was a shrimp we could act as if we were having a fancy shrimp cocktail. Ketchup and tired fryer grease helped pull it off. Oddly enough she was thrilled with the evening. I’m thinking of making it a tradition. Although, the wife is not in total agreement.
The best part for me was just being out with her, not another soul around us. No pesky waiters. No obnoxious guests, no hectic cajoling annoyances from society, just me and my gal. One other little side note. The wife did not feel …obligated, if you know what I mean. So I didn’t have to put in another couple hours of labor late into the night. Just came home, ate a few chocolate truffles and went to our separate corners to sleep. You see after thirty years of marriage, a roll in the hay is better performed on a Saturday night. That is assuming of course I got the energy. Generally speaking, it just too much work. I am…… a genius.
After informing one of my good friends of my minor acheivement, he told me how he handled the holiday with his wife. He told me he heated up some instant pasta poured some canned pasta sauce on it, left it on the counter and went to bed before his wife came home from work. He said it only cost three bucks and he didn't have to go anywhere. I have in fact been humbled by the master.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Jingles by S.E. Hicks
Jingles
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When the good Lord was passing out talent I didn’t get in the music line. It seemed to me that the ability to make music should be left to those folks who were seeking an identity that did not necessarily require the individual to be broad in the shoulders. Since that time I have grown to have the greatest respect for those blessed with musical talent as I really enjoy all forms of musical style and the various respective genres. Everything from Bluegrass to Beethoven, Blues to Rock, Pop to Country, I like it all, except I am a little burned out on Elvis. I really like hard to find obscure stuff, like Julia Lee’s “Snatch and Grab It” or The Dominoes singing the song “Sixty Minute Man.” I guess in lieu of talent I must have actually received great appreciation of music as both a form of entertainment and artistic expression.
Alas, making music, for me has been an act of futility. My first attempt I believe began in perhaps the third grade with a flute-o-phone. Excited I was to unwrap the plastic toy like instrument, black in color about thirteen inches long with a removable mouth piece. The mouth piece later served as a whistle which had nerve shattering effects on my kid sister that caused my parents to reprimand me. The flute-o-phone became nothing more than a noise maker. The flute-o-phone itself was taught to me and my classmates once a week by the traveling adjunct music teacher. In preparation for an all school assembly sometime later that year we learned how to play melodies such as “Hot Cross Buns,” “ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and of course “Mary had a Little Lamb.” I could not play any of these simplistic works nor could I hit a single note despite having great enthusiasm to do so. Consequently, I was instructed to pretend to play the flute-o-phone at the all school assembly as my goose bump causing notes would have been a distraction in our effort of entertaining the parents who came to watch.
The next year brought the melodica and with it came great expectations along with even greater frustrations, as I could not get my head around the thing. I produced sounds never before heard by man. Sounds that the engineers of said instrument had not designed it to make. The result was a confiscation. Neither of my parents wanted to hear or see the damn thing ever again. Nor would there be any more money spent towards my musical career. Consequently the next year’s instrument the harpsichord was not part of my educational development. The sixth grade year brought with it an opportunity to actually participate as I was introduced to the hand bell.
The hand bell was my salvation as a musician. Due to the simple fact that it did not require me to blow into or coordinate my fingers in order to make the musical note. All I had to do was shake the thing once or twice on cue in order for me to be a part of an ensemble of other bell ringers. Unfortunately, I could not follow the notes very well and was constantly ringing my bell at the wrong time. So the teacher gave me a dramatic role in playing the very last note to but just one song. The opportunity to do my bit was an exercise in patience as I could not wait to ring that bell at the up coming Christmas concert. Tremendous effort was put in place as my classroom teacher stood by me during the entire presentation and held the bell until it was my turn to ring it. I apparently fought her the whole time.
Seventh grade was worse as I was in the choir now. Blessed with puberty I was then beset with a voice cracking phase of development. My attempt at singing was not unlike any other musical skill I had. Singing for me was more like screaming has I belted out of key an irritating primeval screech that was thought to be purposeful on the part of my music teacher. Thus, I was incorrectly labeled a trouble maker. Got in trouble with the principle and was kicked out of choir for the year. Being disciplined for possessing an enthusiastic pubescent affected singing voice scared me for life. Stupid teachers.
It was around this time that Beatle mania struck. I along with three neighborhood kids bought Beatle wigs and entertained the neighborhood girls by miming the words to “I Want to Hold Your Hand. ” As the Beatles tunes were played in the window behind us on 45 records, we fake played home made wooden guitars and used cardboard boxes as drums to entertain the masses. I of course played the part of George. One older girl even tossed her bra at us during one of our concerts. We were a sensation that lasted a week or so until ultimately the other guys took up real drums and guitars. With my history, buying an electric guitar, speaker and guitar lessons was not going to happen at my house. So much for being a Beatle.
Eighth grade brought the attention of my musical handicap to a new more sensitive music teacher. She recognized my total inability and also saw that my confidence had been demolished by the past miss handlings of my musical career. She suggested rather than sing I get involved in the up coming musical which was by the way “Oklahoma,” some other way. When the try outs were announced for someone who could make the sound of a mooing cow, I was encouraged to try out. Success at last, I was one of two boys designated to dress up as a dancing cow and at one critical moment I was to moo. Unfortunately it was later determined that the other boy was actually better at the mooing. My musical career ended that night after I performed in the musical “Oklahoma” as the backend of a dancing cow.
Since then I have tried to play the piano as I married a piano playing music major who could play but failed memorably as a teacher. Thus undaunted, I made a feeble attempt to play the harmonica. Now the piano actually resulted in some success as I was very successful in learning to play by ear the famous Budweiser Jingle “When You Say Bud.” My rendition was however off key and played out of rhythm. The mouth harp was a real disappointment as well, a waste of money and time. I gave a good old college try at the didgeridoo, couldn’t figure that instrument out to save my life but had a blast drinking beer whilst I tried.
The making of a reed whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs as I blew into my cupped hands overjoyed my parents as well. That idle habit was broken via the butter paddle. An attempt at lip whistling tunes didn’t work either. I could not shape my lips right which may be why I am better at kissing (all the puckering at whistle practice.) Thus, the development of a eardrum shattering, head turning wolf whistle resulted. That skill, seldom effective, graduated into a “come over here” or “hey you” whistle which didn’t work on women either, except in the movies but was very affective in calling the boys home for dinner. Yes, I whistle trained my three boys. I could call them home from three blocks away…..still works.
I am not done with my life long quest to contribute to the world of music. When time and money permits I intend to teach myself the Indian Flute. Maybe I’ll get that one right. Wrapped up in a buffalo robe in the dead of winter blowing melodies on a Indian flute while sitting by myself on a deer hide near a fire can’t possibly offend anybody. In the mean time I will continue to sing at the top of my lungs in the shower, irritate my music major wife and enjoy a minor skill at singing camp songs.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
When the good Lord was passing out talent I didn’t get in the music line. It seemed to me that the ability to make music should be left to those folks who were seeking an identity that did not necessarily require the individual to be broad in the shoulders. Since that time I have grown to have the greatest respect for those blessed with musical talent as I really enjoy all forms of musical style and the various respective genres. Everything from Bluegrass to Beethoven, Blues to Rock, Pop to Country, I like it all, except I am a little burned out on Elvis. I really like hard to find obscure stuff, like Julia Lee’s “Snatch and Grab It” or The Dominoes singing the song “Sixty Minute Man.” I guess in lieu of talent I must have actually received great appreciation of music as both a form of entertainment and artistic expression.
Alas, making music, for me has been an act of futility. My first attempt I believe began in perhaps the third grade with a flute-o-phone. Excited I was to unwrap the plastic toy like instrument, black in color about thirteen inches long with a removable mouth piece. The mouth piece later served as a whistle which had nerve shattering effects on my kid sister that caused my parents to reprimand me. The flute-o-phone became nothing more than a noise maker. The flute-o-phone itself was taught to me and my classmates once a week by the traveling adjunct music teacher. In preparation for an all school assembly sometime later that year we learned how to play melodies such as “Hot Cross Buns,” “ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and of course “Mary had a Little Lamb.” I could not play any of these simplistic works nor could I hit a single note despite having great enthusiasm to do so. Consequently, I was instructed to pretend to play the flute-o-phone at the all school assembly as my goose bump causing notes would have been a distraction in our effort of entertaining the parents who came to watch.
The next year brought the melodica and with it came great expectations along with even greater frustrations, as I could not get my head around the thing. I produced sounds never before heard by man. Sounds that the engineers of said instrument had not designed it to make. The result was a confiscation. Neither of my parents wanted to hear or see the damn thing ever again. Nor would there be any more money spent towards my musical career. Consequently the next year’s instrument the harpsichord was not part of my educational development. The sixth grade year brought with it an opportunity to actually participate as I was introduced to the hand bell.
The hand bell was my salvation as a musician. Due to the simple fact that it did not require me to blow into or coordinate my fingers in order to make the musical note. All I had to do was shake the thing once or twice on cue in order for me to be a part of an ensemble of other bell ringers. Unfortunately, I could not follow the notes very well and was constantly ringing my bell at the wrong time. So the teacher gave me a dramatic role in playing the very last note to but just one song. The opportunity to do my bit was an exercise in patience as I could not wait to ring that bell at the up coming Christmas concert. Tremendous effort was put in place as my classroom teacher stood by me during the entire presentation and held the bell until it was my turn to ring it. I apparently fought her the whole time.
Seventh grade was worse as I was in the choir now. Blessed with puberty I was then beset with a voice cracking phase of development. My attempt at singing was not unlike any other musical skill I had. Singing for me was more like screaming has I belted out of key an irritating primeval screech that was thought to be purposeful on the part of my music teacher. Thus, I was incorrectly labeled a trouble maker. Got in trouble with the principle and was kicked out of choir for the year. Being disciplined for possessing an enthusiastic pubescent affected singing voice scared me for life. Stupid teachers.
It was around this time that Beatle mania struck. I along with three neighborhood kids bought Beatle wigs and entertained the neighborhood girls by miming the words to “I Want to Hold Your Hand. ” As the Beatles tunes were played in the window behind us on 45 records, we fake played home made wooden guitars and used cardboard boxes as drums to entertain the masses. I of course played the part of George. One older girl even tossed her bra at us during one of our concerts. We were a sensation that lasted a week or so until ultimately the other guys took up real drums and guitars. With my history, buying an electric guitar, speaker and guitar lessons was not going to happen at my house. So much for being a Beatle.
Eighth grade brought the attention of my musical handicap to a new more sensitive music teacher. She recognized my total inability and also saw that my confidence had been demolished by the past miss handlings of my musical career. She suggested rather than sing I get involved in the up coming musical which was by the way “Oklahoma,” some other way. When the try outs were announced for someone who could make the sound of a mooing cow, I was encouraged to try out. Success at last, I was one of two boys designated to dress up as a dancing cow and at one critical moment I was to moo. Unfortunately it was later determined that the other boy was actually better at the mooing. My musical career ended that night after I performed in the musical “Oklahoma” as the backend of a dancing cow.
Since then I have tried to play the piano as I married a piano playing music major who could play but failed memorably as a teacher. Thus undaunted, I made a feeble attempt to play the harmonica. Now the piano actually resulted in some success as I was very successful in learning to play by ear the famous Budweiser Jingle “When You Say Bud.” My rendition was however off key and played out of rhythm. The mouth harp was a real disappointment as well, a waste of money and time. I gave a good old college try at the didgeridoo, couldn’t figure that instrument out to save my life but had a blast drinking beer whilst I tried.
The making of a reed whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs as I blew into my cupped hands overjoyed my parents as well. That idle habit was broken via the butter paddle. An attempt at lip whistling tunes didn’t work either. I could not shape my lips right which may be why I am better at kissing (all the puckering at whistle practice.) Thus, the development of a eardrum shattering, head turning wolf whistle resulted. That skill, seldom effective, graduated into a “come over here” or “hey you” whistle which didn’t work on women either, except in the movies but was very affective in calling the boys home for dinner. Yes, I whistle trained my three boys. I could call them home from three blocks away…..still works.
I am not done with my life long quest to contribute to the world of music. When time and money permits I intend to teach myself the Indian Flute. Maybe I’ll get that one right. Wrapped up in a buffalo robe in the dead of winter blowing melodies on a Indian flute while sitting by myself on a deer hide near a fire can’t possibly offend anybody. In the mean time I will continue to sing at the top of my lungs in the shower, irritate my music major wife and enjoy a minor skill at singing camp songs.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Night of the Tupperware Creatures by S.E. Hicks
The Night of the Tupperware Creatures
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
The invention of Tupperware is without question a fabulous invention for those of us who love leftovers. Us hard working slobs hold in high regard the Tupperware container as it has stretched our hard earned dollars a bit further than most of the other products designed for food preservation and has magically fed us on many a bachelor night to bout. Any fugal modern day cook of the house takes full advantage of Tupperware for that very reason. That reason alone justifies the need for Tupperware. However, the time leftovers save in preparation of subsequent meals when one is beat up from the day or because of daily situational constraints requiring a quick and tasty meal with that good old home cooked flavor are also strong supportive arguments for Tupperware’s ubiquitous use.
In general I love leftovers, depending of course on what is actually left over. Some things actually taste better the next day, others…..Ugh. As is the case of entrées such as chili and or pot roast versus three day old fruit salad. All of these delicacies get better with age, up to a point that is. Other food items such as left over frozen vegetables are not among the better tasting next day lunch items, as they generally lose their character after an overnight bivouac in the frig. Fresh steamed veggies tend to survive a while longer, deserve a second look but usually those treats never make it that far. Some things just don’t age as well as others encouraging total absorption.
I suppose now you are thinking, where is this story going? It is certainly not going to be about touting the benefits of using various food preservation concepts as they apply to the household economy. No, on the contrary, the story is about the habit of collecting leftovers until it is dangerously close to starting an epidemic. Twenty two cubic feet of refrigerator was way to much storage space for my wife to have access too. I’m not sure if it was because she was overly proud of what she prepared, wanted to maintain a museum for historical record, whether she viewed the act of leftover wasting as a potential sin if it was thrown out or if she just forgot she had leftovers all together. Regardless the reason, which may be one of the great unresolved mysteries of mankind, she saved leftovers in the frig (not the freezer), in Tupperware, forever. Even the most tiny of portions would be saved, mere tablespoons. Tidbits of something or other housed in Tupperware, displayed in the frig until I discovered what ever it was. Leftover food which clearly had metamorphic qualities. Food stuffs that had changed into something that could no longer be classified as food nor could possibly retain any of it’s previous nutritious elements all proudly existing in my Frigidaire X5000. It may have been by design as there was never any room for beer, that was for certain.
One fateful night after a long evening at work I stopped at a tavern for a cold one before I came home. The wife had long gone to bed so what she didn’t know would not be an issue. What I did not know, she had been preparing for such an eventuality for…… who knows how long. After more than one aluminum soldier fell to my vampire like assault, I staggered home in hopes of finding a dinner plate of what ever she had prepared that evening. As soon as I walked in the door I opened the frig. When I looked cross eyed into my top of the line frig, that I was still making payments on, I quickly discovered no plate was dished up for me. It was then incumbent on me to scourer the stacks of never ending Tupperware stores for something tasty.
Dozens upon dozens of Tupperware containers full of highly colorful food items were at my fingertips. At that point I was on a mission to fix my self a late Friday night feast of leftovers. Unfortunately, the very first container I opened had inside a portion of leftover mashed sweet potatoes that was now culturing a grayish white fuzzy mold that was beginning to take on a very unpleasant odor. I puked up the beer in the kitchen sink. Recovering soon there after, not wishing to dump the contents of the container down the garbage disposal waking every body up, I closed the lid and sat the container on the kitchen table. The next Tupperware encased treat was positively unrecognizable. It looked like a science project gone bad of perhaps a vegetable matter breaking down into crude oil. Further investigations resulted in discovery of other morbidly unique chemical reactions, possibly new life forms, some of which had no odor, others were in fact quite foul, gut retching. All protected from one another inside the patented seal tight containers.
After opening a dozen or more containers revealing the toxic and profane remnants of meals gone by, I started to chuckle. Shortly, the prodigy woke up and joined me in the kitchen. Still sleepy, my young son peered into the next vestibule of refrigerated botulism laden garbage only to let out in unison with me a profoundly expressed EEEEwwweeee! We preceded to laugh. More containers opened, more disgusting moldy creations and more resulting laughter. Soon the toddler was up, joining us in laughter and scientific observance, as more and more of Momma’s experiments were uncovered. Now we had an assembly line operation/ investigative talk show underway. We would carefully open a container, take a critical look, vocalize our individual reactions and conjecture as to what it used to be then assign a name to what it had become. Some of the containers held within it’s plastic walls coincidental works of art. Artwork that rivaled the masters i.e. Van Gough. The phrase “piece de la résistance” was never used.
The fun soon became a project as each of the respective revolting enigmas were processed. The boys took turns alternating between dumping out the contents in the disposal, rinsing out the container and placing it in the dishwasher. For safety sake, I insisted they wear rubber gloves which added to their fun and courageous efforts. This food storage habit of my wife was probably why I could never find any Tupperware in the cabinet. It was all in the frig. It is not at all clear how many biological entities we dispatched that night but one thing was for certain, I no longer had an appetite for leftovers……. Ever. We had however, experienced one of those memorable moments, a father son heartfelt bonding adventure at mother’s expense. The whole ordeal was incidentally later found to be highly reproachable to significant others. You had to be there.
When the blonde tornado awoke the next morning the frig was sanitized and spotless. As Bugs Bunny cartoons played across the television she found me asleep in the recliner with a passed out youngster on one side and a toddler on the other, a copy of Snow White in my lap. All the Tupperware had either been washed twice in the dishwasher with ample quantities of bleach, stored in the cupboard properly or completely removed from the house. She neither said anything or acted as if she even noticed. I didn’t dare bring it up.
For several weeks after “the night of the Tupperware creatures,” both boys begged to clean the frig out again as they where wanting to have more laughs with Dad. We didn’t, haven’t, and won’t.
The boys eventually drew colored pictures of the effort, from memory of course. I hung them on the frig. My wife did not get the satirical symbolism…… I don’t guess.
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
The invention of Tupperware is without question a fabulous invention for those of us who love leftovers. Us hard working slobs hold in high regard the Tupperware container as it has stretched our hard earned dollars a bit further than most of the other products designed for food preservation and has magically fed us on many a bachelor night to bout. Any fugal modern day cook of the house takes full advantage of Tupperware for that very reason. That reason alone justifies the need for Tupperware. However, the time leftovers save in preparation of subsequent meals when one is beat up from the day or because of daily situational constraints requiring a quick and tasty meal with that good old home cooked flavor are also strong supportive arguments for Tupperware’s ubiquitous use.
In general I love leftovers, depending of course on what is actually left over. Some things actually taste better the next day, others…..Ugh. As is the case of entrées such as chili and or pot roast versus three day old fruit salad. All of these delicacies get better with age, up to a point that is. Other food items such as left over frozen vegetables are not among the better tasting next day lunch items, as they generally lose their character after an overnight bivouac in the frig. Fresh steamed veggies tend to survive a while longer, deserve a second look but usually those treats never make it that far. Some things just don’t age as well as others encouraging total absorption.
I suppose now you are thinking, where is this story going? It is certainly not going to be about touting the benefits of using various food preservation concepts as they apply to the household economy. No, on the contrary, the story is about the habit of collecting leftovers until it is dangerously close to starting an epidemic. Twenty two cubic feet of refrigerator was way to much storage space for my wife to have access too. I’m not sure if it was because she was overly proud of what she prepared, wanted to maintain a museum for historical record, whether she viewed the act of leftover wasting as a potential sin if it was thrown out or if she just forgot she had leftovers all together. Regardless the reason, which may be one of the great unresolved mysteries of mankind, she saved leftovers in the frig (not the freezer), in Tupperware, forever. Even the most tiny of portions would be saved, mere tablespoons. Tidbits of something or other housed in Tupperware, displayed in the frig until I discovered what ever it was. Leftover food which clearly had metamorphic qualities. Food stuffs that had changed into something that could no longer be classified as food nor could possibly retain any of it’s previous nutritious elements all proudly existing in my Frigidaire X5000. It may have been by design as there was never any room for beer, that was for certain.
One fateful night after a long evening at work I stopped at a tavern for a cold one before I came home. The wife had long gone to bed so what she didn’t know would not be an issue. What I did not know, she had been preparing for such an eventuality for…… who knows how long. After more than one aluminum soldier fell to my vampire like assault, I staggered home in hopes of finding a dinner plate of what ever she had prepared that evening. As soon as I walked in the door I opened the frig. When I looked cross eyed into my top of the line frig, that I was still making payments on, I quickly discovered no plate was dished up for me. It was then incumbent on me to scourer the stacks of never ending Tupperware stores for something tasty.
Dozens upon dozens of Tupperware containers full of highly colorful food items were at my fingertips. At that point I was on a mission to fix my self a late Friday night feast of leftovers. Unfortunately, the very first container I opened had inside a portion of leftover mashed sweet potatoes that was now culturing a grayish white fuzzy mold that was beginning to take on a very unpleasant odor. I puked up the beer in the kitchen sink. Recovering soon there after, not wishing to dump the contents of the container down the garbage disposal waking every body up, I closed the lid and sat the container on the kitchen table. The next Tupperware encased treat was positively unrecognizable. It looked like a science project gone bad of perhaps a vegetable matter breaking down into crude oil. Further investigations resulted in discovery of other morbidly unique chemical reactions, possibly new life forms, some of which had no odor, others were in fact quite foul, gut retching. All protected from one another inside the patented seal tight containers.
After opening a dozen or more containers revealing the toxic and profane remnants of meals gone by, I started to chuckle. Shortly, the prodigy woke up and joined me in the kitchen. Still sleepy, my young son peered into the next vestibule of refrigerated botulism laden garbage only to let out in unison with me a profoundly expressed EEEEwwweeee! We preceded to laugh. More containers opened, more disgusting moldy creations and more resulting laughter. Soon the toddler was up, joining us in laughter and scientific observance, as more and more of Momma’s experiments were uncovered. Now we had an assembly line operation/ investigative talk show underway. We would carefully open a container, take a critical look, vocalize our individual reactions and conjecture as to what it used to be then assign a name to what it had become. Some of the containers held within it’s plastic walls coincidental works of art. Artwork that rivaled the masters i.e. Van Gough. The phrase “piece de la résistance” was never used.
The fun soon became a project as each of the respective revolting enigmas were processed. The boys took turns alternating between dumping out the contents in the disposal, rinsing out the container and placing it in the dishwasher. For safety sake, I insisted they wear rubber gloves which added to their fun and courageous efforts. This food storage habit of my wife was probably why I could never find any Tupperware in the cabinet. It was all in the frig. It is not at all clear how many biological entities we dispatched that night but one thing was for certain, I no longer had an appetite for leftovers……. Ever. We had however, experienced one of those memorable moments, a father son heartfelt bonding adventure at mother’s expense. The whole ordeal was incidentally later found to be highly reproachable to significant others. You had to be there.
When the blonde tornado awoke the next morning the frig was sanitized and spotless. As Bugs Bunny cartoons played across the television she found me asleep in the recliner with a passed out youngster on one side and a toddler on the other, a copy of Snow White in my lap. All the Tupperware had either been washed twice in the dishwasher with ample quantities of bleach, stored in the cupboard properly or completely removed from the house. She neither said anything or acted as if she even noticed. I didn’t dare bring it up.
For several weeks after “the night of the Tupperware creatures,” both boys begged to clean the frig out again as they where wanting to have more laughs with Dad. We didn’t, haven’t, and won’t.
The boys eventually drew colored pictures of the effort, from memory of course. I hung them on the frig. My wife did not get the satirical symbolism…… I don’t guess.
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