Pondering Nat's contribution this morning, and my own proud megaliths, got me to thinking about stinking, and what goes in, in proportion to what comes out, and in what form it does so.
As I've said, the wife cannot cook for four ('Honey, there's only four of us, and three of you are little short fuckers!') so she cooks for the army she doesn't have, and is too penurious to allow me to give it away, so we have had to eat spaghetti for three nights in a row. And Garlic bread.
Literally, I suggest that we bag something up that fills an entire shelf in the fridge and give some to my parents or something, and she gets a look in her eyes like you'd see in a state prison, just before you get shanked for reaching for an extra biscuit.
And spaghetti, I think, forms the perfect ass-bat. I mean, you could take one of mine, polish it up a bit, add some metal studs to the tip, and have a serviceable weapon. Though I doubt anyone would care to fight you, because whoo doggies, they stink. I mean, stink like you have to go to the other bathroom and gargle to get the taste out of your mouth stink. The kids come to the closed bathroom door, hold out their hand to the knob, hesitate, think better of it, and go elsewhere.
A closed bathroom door is a hazmat warning in this house. Excuse me, I have to go change this shirt. Funk is coming off it in waves, I'll go drop it in the machine...
There, I'm back. Where was I...
Oh yeah, we eat a lot of poor people food, which means ethnic, and a lot of it is Mexican(ish). Now, that diet can lead to crapping out special sauce so hard you shit on the back of your balls.
'Wet cleanup on aisle 13!' And you gotta clean the bottom of the seat. Italian? Nope, just good solid loaves and fishes. A miracle.
Steak is best. All the loaf, very little of the odor, and wipe like Cheryl Crow. Chinese is worst. Just go to the cupboard and dig out an extra roll of two ply, cuz whatever's hangin there ain't enough.
Oooo! The wife made scratch Tapioca pudding, my absolute fave. Easy to make, but it burns like a bitch if you look away for a second. Of course she only has two speeds on the stove-top: off, and smoking post apocalyptic wasteland. I am forever phoning downstairs and saying 'honey, you're about to burn something', and she has given up calling bullshit on me, and now just runs and lifts it off the burner, because I can smell that tipping point where the item being tortured has absorbed all the calories it can, at least at that temperature.
Man, I feel frisky, like I want to scoot around on my asshole on the carpet.