Mental Floss

The other day I talked about religious imagery showing up in foods. The flip side of this coin is when food shows up in religious imagery. For instance one time I was down on my knees in this chapel while traveling through Colorado. I looked up, and I swear a stained glass window had an image of a turkey club and fries in it. I rubbed my eyes once, mouth salivating, and it was gone. But I know it was real. Luckily, there was a Perkins down the street, so when I was done praying, it was chow time.



Can I interest you angels in our Hungry Man Breakfast?







Actually, come to think of it the turkey club incident is the only time I can think of something like this happening. It's not the same thing, but this other time a palm tree fell onto the roof of my house after a really bad storm, and while rebuilding it I ran out money. Youngblood commented that my unfinished house looked like the half-built Death Star from Return of the Jedi. Youngblood makes no sense sometimes, because unless my house is round and floating in space, I don't see the comparison. A few loose boards and an unfinished rec room with plastic sheets for walls do not make an Imperial battle station, Youngblood. And no, Beth doesn't love her Padme Amidala line of beauty products. It gives her a rash.



I assure you this new Death Star will be palm tree-proof, Lord Vader




I guess Falwell's death is hitting me hard today, because I'm talking in circles, but one last thing I gotta say is how uptight my accountant Rob is. I invited him to the annual Chapman summer bar-b-q last July, and then physically forced him to join a pie eating contest. I figure it'd be good for him to get himself dirty and loosen up a bit. But the guy's such a type-A personality, these were the stains on his shirt at the end of the contest:



Rob organizes his shirt stains by size, cross-referenced by texture





Rob said he'd take care of cleaning the shirt, but I wasn't hearing it. I'd heard good things about Ole Mexican Tile Sealer as an alternative to laundry detergent. Luckily, Youngblood had picked up a batch at a hardware store while on vacation in Tijuana years earlier, and I had a bottle sitting in my shed. I poured a bit out on the lawn to test its powers before taking it to Rob's garments, and while it was clumpy and the expiry date said "09-1986," it turned the grass white instantly so I figured what the hey?



Illegal everywhere except Arizona and yo mama's house








That tile sealer ate through Accountant Rob's t-shirt faster than zombies in a daycare. Rob's never been one for high fashion, so he didn't mind, but I still felt kind of bad for ruining his duds. But he insisted he didn't care, proving it to me the next day when he wore his favorite shirt to a business meeting, a blue number that had been ripped on a fence around the nipple area years earlier. He never fixed the darned thing, and we proceeded to walk around Honolulu for the next three hours with Rob's teet hanging out.



I knew my accountant Rob was milking me, but this is getting ridiculous