It's a great day here at the Champagne Tasting Room, as I've passed a serious mile marker in my life as a blogger: My first hate mail.
Dave Barry sometimes dedicates entire columns to the Humor Impaired, those fine citizens among us who plod through life peering around the corners of sarcasm and irony thinking, and I quote, "Meh?" I've had plenty of exposure to the Humor Impaired as a print columnist, but it's taken them a while to discover me online, possibly because of all the typing and spelling and clicking involved. I'd like everyone to meet Bianca, who is very, very angry about my reluctance to eat garbage. "This a trivial topic, indeed, but that's not what bugged me most about this piece. What really bothered me the most, I guess, is the fact that I was left with the overwhelming urge to yell: there are hundreds of millions of people who are forced to subsist on the discards of other humans for lack of a better option. Your nutritious meal, which you are fortunate to have, was wrapped in layers of plastic and paper. I think you'll live." Well, I must say, Bianca has it all wrong. All. Wrong. That "nutritious meal" consisted largely of animal cookies, the frosted kind, and I don't know about you but I'm encouraging my sister and every other pregnant lady I know to eat the HELL out of those little elephants and lions so that Taufling pops out big and strong and coated with nonpareils. So, cookieless as I am, I really don't think I WILL live, seeing how I've paved paradise and put up a parking lot and all. Send emergency animal cookies, but not the iced animal cookies, they must be the FROSTED kind, until I recover.
November 21, 2003