Wednesday, December 29, 2010

I Should Have Gone With The Honey Nut

I was a very strange kid when it came to eating. I was always trying
the most random things that would baffle even the world's most
brilliant scholars and men of science. How I even made it past 7 is
beyond me. My poor mother must have thought she was raising a human
garbage disposal.

My grandmother who lived upstairs from us would save the heel of
Italian bread until it got stale. I would sit in her kitchen and eat
that hockey puck until my mouth was so dry I needed to drink out of
the toilet for relief. Well, not really, but it wouldn't have been any
worse than some of the other weird shit I ate.

Raw potatoes never stood a chance in my house. Walking into the
kitchen and hearing the "swish, swish, swish" of the potato peeler was
music to my ears. You ever see a cat who gets all excited when they
hear the can opener? That was me, except I don't crap into a box.

I'd grab a whole potato, lovingly gazing at the shiny, round orb of
spud in my hands, drooling at the thought of sinking my teeth into
that raw mass hoping my molar wouldn't crack. But yet, if you asked me
to eat them mashed or baked, I'd run and hide under the bed like I was
a baby seal running from an Alaskan poacher. God forbid I eat that
thing cooked.

Putting milk in my cereal was a big no no for years. I ate it dry.
Until one morning I was on the porch with my Cheerios and orange juice
and thought "Hmmm... if peanut butter and chocolate go good together,
than why not Cheerios and O.J.? I might be onto something." The only
thing I was on was obviously crack, because that was the worst tasting
slop I have ever had.

It got so bad that Mylanta offered me an endorsement deal at 10. I
should have taken it. Who knows how many potatoes I could have bought?

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