WHEN YOU LOOK IN A MIRROR, WHOSE YOU DO YOU SEE …

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“It’s amazing how good I look even though I weigh more than 350 pounds,” she said to no one in particular.

The stretch pants were more like etch pants, since even the stitches were undoubtedly being etched into the flaccid globules of her pulsating corpulence.

The sports bra that was straining the fabric of time, space and credulity, turned out to be not a sports bra but rather a simple tank top. Perhaps she misunderstood the meaning of the phrase, “tank top,” to mean if you look like a tank, wear this on the top half of your body.

The ragged, dirty bunny slippers she was wearing did little nothing to add to the image of “looking good” she apparently wanted to achieve.

Even the dirty mirror hanging on the door of the K-Mart dressing room seemed confused as it tried to fit her nearly four foot wide frame into the 18-inch wide mirror frame.

And yet, there she stood. Primping and preening, turning this way then that, and all under the approving nod of her bulbous head.

She pointed at her reflection in the mirror, smiled and said, “You are one hot babe, Miss Mary Mary. Justin won’t be able to keep his hands off of you tonight.”

I didn’t know whether to admire her or feel sorry for her.

After a few minutes of consideration, I decided to admire her. (And yes, I actually did take a few minutes to reach a conclusion about something that was absolutely none of my business.)

I don’t know if she knew just how “ungood” she looked to the “average” person on the street. But if she did, she had apparently decided it didn’t matter.

She was dressing for herself and her man, Justin. And apparently Justin was going to find her to be one hot babe. Anyone else’s opinion was irrelevant.

More power to her.

AAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH …

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The words just aren’t working. The letters are running away from the words … the words are running away from the sentences … the sentences are running away from the paragraphs … and the paragraphs are running away from the blog.

The blog! OMG. How am I gonna fill some post-space when the words won’t cooperate.

Think, man. Think.

Wait. Stream of consciousness. Sometimes that works.

But sometimes it doesn’t.

Doesn’t. What a silly word that is.

What is.

Life.

What’s life.

Magazine.

How much?

Too much.

That’s life.

Repeat as necessary.

But is it ever really necessary.

Necessity is the mother of invention.

I partied with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention.

Now that was weird.

Fade to black.

Aaaaaand, cut.

That’s a wrap, people.

See you tomorrow.

WHO IS YOUR LIFE BROUGHT TO YOU BY …

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I don’t usually go to children’s plays any more. They’re cute and fun when your own children are in them, but otherwise, not so much. At least not so much for me.

But I had to make an exception this time because my nephew was playing in an adaptation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Why a middle school teacher thinks it’s a good thing to produce a Shakespeare play for kids that age is a bit beyond me, but I promised him I would be there. So I was there.

Unfortunately, it lived down to my expectations. The adaptation was horrendous. The direction was lacking. The props were, well actually, the props and costumes weren’t that bad. The singing … yes, there was singing, even though it was not a musical adaptation … was, well, let’s just say it was discordant and leave it at that.

Worst of all, the kids looked like they were not having any fun doing it.

There was one bright spot in it.

Act three, scene one. The kid playing Prince Hamlet begins his adapted soliloquy:

“TV or not TV. That’s my question.”

He was supposed to use the original words, but whether he adapted the adaptation on purpose or by accident, it was worth the price of admission.

“TV or not TV. That’s my question.”

And as most of my regular readers know, my answer is usually, not TV.

It helps on the quest to live life as commercial-free as possible.

SO WHAT YOU GOT IN YOUR BAG …

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I don’t eat out much any more, so when I do it’s a treat I want to enjoy as much as possible. Today was no different.

I was in the mood for a “gourmet” burger, so I headed over to one of my local Red Robin® restaurants. I’m particularly fond of their Whisky River® BBQ Burger and like to enjoy it with a Raspberry Lemonade. Simple but tasty.

While still a devout people watcher and conversation eavesdropper, I nonetheless want to enjoy my food and drink.

It was a moderately busy day at the restaurant so the tables and booths around me began to fill up rather quickly. Mostly, they were filled with families with, at least today, surprisingly well-behaved children who were also surprisingly, only mildly noisy.

Well, except for the snot-nosed, high-pitched, little screecher who apparently thought it was cute to try and split the ear drums of those seated nearby him. Thankfully, this aural assassin and his uncaring mother left the restaurant soon. Perhaps in search of an air raid siren with which the child could practice.

But what was most upsetting today was the gaggle of geezers who were sitting at the table directly behind me. Now normally, I’m not at all bothered by seasoned citizens enjoying a meal out. I find them to be typically quiet and unobtrusive. Great table neighbors if you want to have some quiet time for note writing after enjoying a good meal.

Unfortunately, today’s table neighbors were neither quiet nor unobtrusive. They were in fact louder and more obnoxious than were the trio of teenage girls sitting about five tables away.

That they were loud, as if competing to see how low they could turn their hearing aids and still be heard, was bad enough. But to make things worse was their decision to talk about their ailments and associated disasters.

While people all around them were eating. And trying ... I said, trying ... to enjoy their food.

[INSERT YOUR PERSONAL GROSS ALERT HERE]

So there I am, a few bites into my gourmet burger, when “Celia” decides to talk about her “accident” that happened this morning.

Really? You’re going to talk about that in a restaurant?? With other people around???

And her topic du jour?

A full colostomy bag that burst while she was getting ready to take a bath. (If you don’t know what a colostomy bag is, consider yourself fortunate.)

And not only did she loudly recount her accident incident, but she then proceeded to detail ... that’s right – detail ... the disgusting mess and her efforts at clean up afterward.

WHILE PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO EAT.

And no one at her table thought to stop her. In fact, one gross-out geezer attempted to out-gross her accident with one of his own. And if you thought the first one was bad, you don’t even want to know what the winner’s tale of bilious woe was. Suffice it to say, I will probably never use the bathroom of an AirTran jet for fear that it might be “that” one.

So if you are, or know someone who is, one of those kind of people, please heed and pass on the following advice: STOP IT.

Please show a little, in fact, please show a lot of consideration for those around you who do not share your fascination with your gross disasters. Especially in a restaurant, or anywhere there are people trying to enjoy their food.

I DRANK HOW MUCH LAST NIGHT …

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Enjoy your Monday Morning Chuckle.

Heck, enjoy your Monday as well.