I was chowing down on a bag of Cracker Jacks this weekend, and in between glutenous, sticky handfuls of carmel-coated popcorn goodness I took a moment to admire the bold statement “Prize Inside” emblazoned on the packaging.
Per Webster, a “prize” is defined as:
1: something offered or striven for in competition or in contests of chance 2: something exceptionally desirable 3archaic: a contest for a reward :competition
Wow, prize inside, huh? I find this to be an odd turn of phrase. What did I do to earn this “prize”? I mean, it wasn’t like I ran a sub-four minute mile, solved the Goldbach conjecture, or provided indisputable proof of life after death. All I did was open a bag of junk food and bam, I came into possession of a prize. Talk about the decline of expectations in a generation suffering from a severe case of entitlement-itis.
To satiate my unfulfilled need for instant gratification I think I’ll hit up the cereal boxes in my pantry next. I’m sure there are more “prizes” to be had there that can stroke my ego and give me the feeling of accomplishment in my otherwise drab existence…
Note: Don’t believe for a moment that the “prizes” inside the modern day Cracker Jack are “exceptionally desirable”. They are a pale imitation of what once was. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been informed by these “prizes” that George Washington was our first president. Give me a good ol’ fashioned plastic kaleidoscope or even a few water soluble tattoos, and then we’ll talk…
Happy Thanksgiving to everyone out there! I hope you enjoy your vacation away from work, your Thanksgiving feast (no matter how large or small), and the good cheer and company of family and/or friends. I’m going to take a well-deserved step back from the blog to enjoy this much needed downtime. I’ve been looking forward to catching up on some reading and hitting a few running trails. Will see you back here bright and early Monday morning.
In the meantime, if you’re running behind on your turkey cooking duties, might I suggest thermite?
I had a dream last night about a dog that was made of grass. It looked like a cross between a Bull Terrier and a Labrador, with a squat face and pointed muzzle, and it seemed to be very happy about my presence. It had deep expressive eye sockets, but no eyes. On a front paw I could make out a small ring of delicate mushrooms, and hanging from its belly was a modest clutch of dandelions gone to seed. It was circling me, wagging its grassy doggy tail and staring up at me expectantly with those dark, turfy, eyeless sockets. Green drool was dripping from its drooping, verdant tongue and onto my white shoes, leaving behind explosive emerald Rorschach blotches. In one I could see two whales dancing, and in another an angel performing a swan dive.
Slowly, my green shaggy friend began to change in color. Traces of tan spread like tendrils across its body. The grassy tail stopped wagging. Somberly it turned away from me, and the dog made of grass walked across our perfectly manicured lawn world and through a weather-worn white wooden gate that guarded nothing in particular, where it laid down, rested its now drab muzzle on a still-green paw, and remained motionless. Its vibrant green body had turned the color of dry wheat. Unable to hold the shape of a dog any longer, it was now nothing more than a small pile of brown grass slowly being scattered by the flutter of the afternoon breeze.
Looking down at my stained shoes I noticed a colorful dandelion growing in the grass between my feet, gently swaying in the sunset of the dying wind.
The wife and I recently had the distinct displeasure of volunteering our services to dog sit for a neighbor who was traveling out of state. As we were being walked though the daily routine of two of the most coddled and pampered animals this side of a PeTA afternoon luncheon, my mind began to go numb as the requirements of these two dogs became more maniacal and obtuse than the assembly instructions for the Large Hadron Collider. As the tour of house and home came to a close we were handed three pages of hand written instructions, a portion of which reads as follows (with the emphases typed in as written):
Margee gets fed at 8am and 5pm sharp. Her food bowls can be found in the laundry room. Margee gets one part dry & one part wet food. Cut and mix in tripe found in the fridge.
Margee likes to be talked to while she eats. You can talk about anything, but speak softly.
Angee gets fed at 7:30am and 4:30pm sharp! I can’t emphasis this enough! Angee gets extremely jealous if she sees Margee eating before her. Margee’s bowls are under the coffee table in the living room.
Angee gets two parts wet and one part dry food. Pour in a half cup of chicken stock, which can be found in the refrigerator door. Angee tends to get overexcited and pees when she sees you preparing her food. Just clean up after her with the paper towels under the sink.
Walk both dogs at 11am. Again, I can’t stress this enough! A walk around the neighborhood is the perfect distance. When you get back home, Angee will not walk back into the house. You’ll have to pick her up and carry her to her bed. Do not put her down on the floor! Put her down in her bed!
Playtime is at 3pm. Again, Angee tends to get excited when it’s playtime. Again, just clean up after her with the paper towels.
Angee plays with the tug-o-rope. Never let her lose or you’ll have a sad dog on your hands!
Margee plays with the rubber ring. Don’t let Angee play with the rubber ring or Margee will bite you.
Put Angee and Margee in their kennels at 8pm. Margee gets the blue blanket, Angee the green.
Wash the blankets on Mon/Wed/Fri. Use the special fabric softener in the laundry room.
Turn on the radio. It’s tuned to a station that both Angee and Margee like. Do not change the station! If you change it then Angee and Margee will toss and turn all night.
Blah blah blah blah…this went on and on for pages. For Gawd’s sake, these are dogs, not children. Dogs live to please their master, not the other way around. Honestly, this was more trouble than it was worth. There was no way I was going to baby these animals, cooing to them while they ate and congratulating them for piddling on my shoes whenever I walked through the door.
On the fourth day we simply fed them dry dog food, played catch with them in the back yard, and made sure they had fresh water. And you know what, they were fine and appeared to enjoy themselves like dogs are supposed to. This experience really gave me a window into my neighbor’s soul that I rather wish would have remained shuttered.
Man, some people have their priorities all out of whack and fail to understand when simple dog ownership becomes a target for misplaced emotions. And people wonder why I’m a cat person.
Which reminds me, don’t get me started on cat people…
As I sit here coughing and sneezing, I’m thinking how lucky I am to have caught a cold just in time for Thanksgiving. Yay for me! Perhaps I should throw back a few beers and down a handful of Halls, put on a copy of The Usual Suspects, and try to forget how miserable I feel…
