Well, I've never been so disappointed in my life.



(Thanks for the applause, by the way: we do aim to please.)



I bought this supposedly great cookbook called "Chicken Soup for the Webmaster's Sole," and I want to tell you right now, there is not so much as ONE single recipe in there, whether for a webmaster or for anybody else!


No, seriously!




Mind you, it sounded very speculative in the first place: I mean, who ever heard of serving chicken soup with fish?






But then one wants to stay open to new ideas, doesn't one?








Speaking of food....



And thank heavens for it, by the way: for food, I mean: for let the world take note: none of the following flippancy implies ingratitude on my part. That's right, Mr. Tum-Tum: Not a peep out of you, sir: You know dashed well that you've been satiated since day one of your privileged existence, sir. Yes, you heard me right, sir: Satiated, sir. Admit it!





Oh, like I suppose nobody in the audience here tonight has ever talked to THEIR stomach!






What, you mean you really haven't? I see. Well, in that case, I was just joking when I talked to MINE: so there! (Quiet, Mr. Tum-Tum: I think they're on to us now: Not one word to me during the rest of tonight's entire performance!)




No, seriously. Have you ever gotten to work and opened up a can of Spaghetti-O's, only to suddenly stop and think to yourself: "Hey, wait a minute: I just did this 24 hours ago!"

And no, I don't eat Spaghetti-O's at work every day, gang: I'm just using that as an example. Still, the same case obviously applies whether I'm opening a can of Ravioli, Spaghetti Rings, or Lasagna:

It's like, you suddenly envy the crocodile who can eat a whole springbok in one sitting and thenceforth remain happily half submerged digesting the morsel for months on end!

And how about this corollary reflection:

You've finished your Spaghetti-O's, right? (or your Spaghetti Rings, or your Lasagna, as the case might be) and you're completely satisfied, yes? You can't imagine ever having to eat another pasta in your entire life.

But then fast-forward to this time tomorrow, and there you are at the trough once more -- or in this case, at the office's one and only sink -- once again furtively looking over your shoulder in case one of your equally hunger-addicted co-workers is going to attempt to sidle by you and commandeer the microwave oven while you're still cleaning out your Tupperware from yesterday's seemingly all-sufficient repast.

Of course, in reality it's even worse than this, because you're almost certainly going to have a ham sandwich and apple sauce when you get home tonight, the more so in that you obviously need something to eat while you're watching that new Alfred Hitchcock movie that you just bought on DVD, which is actually an OLD Alfred Hitchcock movie (if not the oldest), dating back to 1928: in fact, now that you think about it, it's a SILENT film called "Champagne" -- which brings up another irritating point: What about all that incessant drinking in our daily lives? THAT doesn't sound very "crocodilian" to me, EITHER!




I mean, let's be clear: In a very real sense, we are all addicted to food. Let's face it: Every time we turn around, we're stuffing SOMETHING into our gullet. (Why, just the other day....)

Well, I'm sorry, but it just doesn't strike me as very efficient time-wise to always be attending to one's ravenous maw like that -- and since there obviously is a better way, at least in theory (witness the gastrointestinal life of the humble crocodile).... shouldn't our scientists be working on this problem?

Who knows, maybe they could come up with a "Time-Release" version of the meals put out by Chefboyardee: New Weekly-O's: "Take One Can weekly." Still, food, you gotta love it. I don't know who first invented it, but all I can say is, hats off to THEM!

I know Orville Redenbacher had something to do with corn, but apart from that...




Of course, certain foods are what they call "an acquired taste." Take beets, for instance: I don't know of a single child on this planet who likes beets, and yet one doesn't have to attend many local dinner parties before seeing those ruddy vegetables, especially beets of the pickled persuasion, on the plates of one's business associates, folks who are generally so conservative in daily life that it's impossible to suspect them of culinary show-boating, as in, "Check out the exotic crap that I'M EATING today, folks: Whoo-hoo!") And that's not counting the many side dishes of borscht that have no doubt been served up under my very nose without my knowledge of it -- for, alas, it's only in these later years that I've become the sort of "gourmand" that you see before you today (or that you imagine so vividly, let's hope, that for all intents and purposes, I myself should be lounging unceremoniously on your living room sofa at this very moment, kicking my shoes off one after t'other, while asking, loudly and rudely, perhaps, but of no one in particular: "Hey, what does a body have to do to get a drink around here?!")

And don't get me wrong, I love my mom, yes? (Who wouldn't?) But let's be honest: She made us eat beets when we were young: There's simply no way to gild THAT lily. Fortunately, no one ever served beets on MY juvenile watch -- except my grandmother, alas, who herself was surely ignorant of my aversion on that score. But in truth, nothing could put me off one of her sleep-inducing turkey dinners so quickly as my sudden espial of a dish full of "the ruddy horrors," as I eventually came to think of that vegetable after my middle-school introduction to the writings of Edgar Allan Poe. Of course, I ate them (after the usual five minutes or so of useless grumbling on my part) in the manner of an owl, swallowing them whole, and then burying the lot of them in my unwilling stomach with a big and relatively rapidly "glugged" glass of milk (owls generally leave out the milk part), after which my Aunt, ever the optimist, would usually attempt to make light of the situation (we kids usually turned this beet business into a major drama at the dinner table) by adverting whimsically to the milk mustache that I had apparently acquired, notwithstanding my then-tender years, in swallowing the loathed concoction. Of course, I loved my aunt, too, so I tried to smile, as if in appreciation of her feeble jest -- but inwardly, I was livid over the whole business of the beets. "Someday I'm going to grow up and decide for MYSELF what to eat!" says I, in silence, of course, to myself: And you know what: I was right! (more's the pity!)

Speaking of food, the Bar portion of the Sunset Bar and Grill is opened until midnight (right, chef? midnight?) so tuck in to the appetizers of your choice when I'm gone.

What's that? Oh, isn't that sweet: This child wants to know if I learned to like beets later in life.

Actually, I haven't -- so I probably shouldn't have mentioned the story at all, since there's no good moral to it, is there?

Still, you do what mummy says, yes? She knows what's good for you.

And even if you can't STAND something like beets, do NOT swallow them whole like I did, okay? I didn't know it at the time, but that can be very dangerous. I might have choked to death!

Of course, I don't recommend this: but if your back is really against the wall and your mother (which I doubt, of course) is being really unreasonable, you can always (as a last resort, mind) drop the beets on the floor -- and even if there's not a dog around that will deign to eat them, by the time they're noticed, the dinner will be over and you'll probably already be down the street at your friend's house playing or whatever.

Fair enough?

Listen, you've been a great audience, but I've worked up a real appetite tonight, so I'd better go meet the repetitive but ongoing demands of "Mr. Tum-Tum," shall we say?

Figuratively speaking, of course: I don't ACTUALLY talk to my stomach, after all! That would be silly, wouldn't it? Ha! (And if you say one word, Mr. Tum-Tum, I'll never speak to you again for REAL!)