This Might Explain ThoseEmbarassing Late-night Folations

So desparate a little aardvark are we for hypertextual communication that we were overjoyed that someone named Byron from Labrador actually commented on the Bratwurst controversy we penned below. We have an image of Byron holed up in a lonely cabin on the snow-pelted Labrador coast, with his lap covered by a bearskin (polar) drinking Labrador tea, next to a roaring fire. We have it from a usually reliable source that bearskins in Labrador do drink tea.

However, we have to admit that Byron's comment leaves us with no small amount of gzornenplatz.

First of all, Byron says that he's "sending your cousin Frank over with a pickup truck". It is totally beyond us how Byron figured out that we do indeed have a cousin Frank. (Frank runs a web site called Dump Dennis Kucinich out of his basement curmudgery in Lakewood, Ohio. We would include a link here, but the site is currently under construction.)

Moreover, Byron makes the logical leap from Bratwurst to comic books, suggesting that we read such literary fare as "The Born Loser, Hagar the Horrible, and Ernie" - this last being, we are strongly convinced, an oblique reference to our Uncle Ernie, who used to be a tree surgeon in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, until he passed recently into that great tree surgery in the sky.

What we'd like to know, Byron, is how is it that you know so much about our family? And what do you mean by sending us a chart that states that the average Bratwurst contains 4 mcg of Dietary Folate Equivalents? I mean, if you're going to Folate around, you might as well use the real thing and not an equivalent.

These and other questions sit on the tip of our collective tongue, a not completely uncomfortable feeling to say the least.

The Importance of Opting for the Anytime Anywhere Package

We never eat real Bratwurst because there is too much fat in it. (Help!) We prefer soy Bratwurst, which has no fat but is big on no taste at all. (Help!) Sometimes we put a little chocolate sauce on it. (Help! I am being held prisoner inside a bunch of really boring text!) We get our soy Bratwurst flown in from Dusseldorf every Wednesday. (Hello?) Wednesday being the day of the week when the soy trees are most productive, and therefore we can be assured of getting the young shoots, which are nice with endives and baby carrots. (Is anybody listening?) On Thursdays, we have Dusseldorf flown in, a difficult task since most people are commuting to and from work at the time and don't want to be flown anywhere. (Hello?) We like our fake Bratwurst with a litle blown mustard on it. (We'd use our cell phone to call for help, but we've exceeded our monthly call allotment.) Dijon will do, but what we really like is the ballpark kind with plenty of capers and ginnyhoofers. (If you're listing, would you call our Uncle Smedley and let him know that Raoul is okay but to call the local authorities as soon as possible?) Mustard has no sugar in it, unlike Ketchup. (Hello?) Why do they always put sugar in everything? (His number is 555-2613.) And while we're at it, how much sugar is there in Dusseldorf. (If the line is busy, call Aunt Bratwurst.) Dusseldorf has always been just a bit too sweet for our taste. (Wait a minute...) We could go on and on, but our nickel is up...

We're Really More Rational On Wednesdays

Please ignore the above entry.

However, for a picture of somebody eating a Bratwurst in Dusseldorf, click here.
Now, I'll shut up about Dusseldorf.

We Caught This Morning Morning's Minion with a Touch of Frostbite

This morning we learned from the Weather Channel that it was going to be lousy today. Freezing rain, lots of snow, hail, locusts, fire descending from heaven, earthquakes, glaciers, and general earthshaking terror and discombobulation. We had a talk with our snowblower and he decided to stay in bed today with a warm milk and plenty of books and Pupi Campo records. Made a call to Pupi Campo to see if he could do anything about the weather. Usually he is pretty good at delaying minor storms and chinooks, but he suggested that I fly south for the winter. Strange. My hands seem to be frozen to the keyb...