Deli for Tardo
We have decided to eat Hannaford salads for supper every night for an indeterminate period of time, just to, you know, see what that does. The logic is that it’s a form of diet, they’re not very expensive, we like them, it eliminates the never exciting “what do we feel like eating tonight?” conversation, and they’re unquestionably healthier than the double cheeseburgers and steak and cheese subs we normally opt for, even with dressing, meat hunks, cheese, and whatever other shit we elect to dollop on top. Nearly any change is an improvement, in this case. We eat fried lard, and are turning into fat hogs. With shockingly little facial manipulation on my part, I can boast four chins. Time to nip this in the bud, with a little help from Hannaford Hank. The Hannaford salad bar has recently added cold peas to their salad bar lineup. I’m going to tell everyone I know about this.
The idea of nightly salads pleases me. It’s easy, and even if it’s just an illusion, I feel as though I’m doing my body a service. My farts are every bit as frequent, however, and at least 1.75 times as bad-smelling. I break wind a lot and there is nothing that I or anyone else can do about it. Perhaps the vegetables are helping to cleanse my body of old food that has been fermenting in my colon since The Cosby Show was #1 in the Nielsens. That ghastly odor I just flatulated a moment ago was probably part of a McDLT.
I have been eating a lot of bologna sandwiches lately. I really like bologna a lot. It’s like hot dog meat but thin and round and big and flappy. I have always cared for bologna. In youth I fondly recall biting eye holes in it and making a fun bologna mask. Nothing aids the complexion more than pressing a cross-section of a pressed conglomerate of thousands of hog browneyes against your face. And delicious? Brother, you don’t know the half of it.
I’m finding that in dealing with bologna, it’s best to get it straight from the deli. Oscar Meyer can go fly a kite, far as I’m concerned. A kite made out of gross, crappy bologna, that birds can eat and destroy, which ruins Oscar Meyers fun outdoor outing, and he gets very sad, and then the birds die from the terrible bologna and fall on his head, and the beaks stick in his skull, and he has to run out into the street to try and flag down someone who can drive him to the hospital, not necessarily an easy task for an old man with dead birds stuck in his head, not to mention dragging a giant mangled diamond-shaped piece of bologna on a string behind him. Even the kindliest of good samaritans is going to want at least a perfunctory explanation. Meanwhile, I’m getting bologna that is freshly sliced according to my politely requested and gladly proffered thickness preference. Delectably spiced and reasonably priced. That’s Hannaford bologna.
My days of prepackaged bologna and roses are behind me, I’m here to report. I also like looking at the huge tubes of meat in the display case while I wait for whichever asshole’s taking eight years to figure out what they want for cold cuts. Taking advantage of the deli is a new thing for me. My few grocery shopping excursions in the past have generally gone: shaped spaghetti in cans, crunchy things in bags, frozen things that look interesting, Little Debbies, Slim Jims, beer, register. Now I can crowbar a deli stop somewhere in there, and my life is all the better for it.
So bologna afternoons and salad nights! Already I feel a revolution coming on, and I’ll tell you, I’m ready for it.