At this very moment I'm watching Bobby Flay grate cheese. This evening on Iron Chef America the secret ingredient seems a little more pedestrian than usual. It's plain ol' beef. And it was dead before they started cooking it. That's a change from when Deb and I watched the Japanese version of the show. They'd take a live fish and chop its head off and we'd squeal in disgust as it flopped around before they made ice cream out of it.
Now Betty White is pitching 1-800-PETMEDS on TV. I wonder what Betty White does for fun these days. She's 85.
I wonder what a day will be like if I make it to 85. I'm thinking something like this:
I wake up. I brush my teeth (including all four wisdom teeth that I'll hold on to despite the recommendations of every dentist I've ever visited). I take a shower, being very careful not to walk on my alarmingly distended scrotum as I step into the tub. After that it's a bio-engineered, hyper-fiber breakfast that makes my colon so clean there's an audible squeak when I walk. The bus picks me up and takes me to my job in town where I hand out maps and mutter obscenities to visitors at the state capital. I'll eat my lunch on a bench on the square and continue swearing at passersby. After work I'll come home and make dinner for Allie and Julia because they'll still be living at home. Deb will be gone. She left us years ago after she ran off with Makoto Nagano. After dinner, I'll give the girls a bath and then find a quiet spot to sit with my mouth open and stare at a ceiling fan until it's time for bed (around 6:30).
Suddenly I don't feel like typing anymore.
My god the ceiling fan in our bedroom spins fast.