The Closest Yeast Ever Comes To My Package

In an inadvertent effort to create the most white bred scene ever to appear in the Reading Terminal Market, I ordered a turkey dinner for lunch. There were mashed potatoes, gravy and cranberries. I was wearing a pink shirt with a starched collar, navy pants and a lovely tie that brought both ends together. I sat with my legs crossed and read the newspaper while I ate my meal. I could not have been more of a cracker if I were named Bradley Hawkins and was aching to get home to my new wife, Muffy. The hippies wafting of patchouli at the table next to me had visceral hate in their eyes. Sometimes I like not being the crazy pinko in a set of circumstances, but not often.

With my meal, I got to choose a big slice of bread from a variety of standard flavors. Naturally, I chose Wheat (as if there were any other choice), but I could only consume about half of it. It was a huge slice, about the size of both my hands put together, and I just couldn’t eat it all with the huge dinner I had before me. Betraying my white trash roots, I put the remainder of the bread in my pocket. I caught a snooty socialite with Lisa Loeb glasses give me a derisive look. Whatever bitch, you don’t know how good this bread is.

It occurred to me then that maybe she did know. Maybe her look was more jealousy than disgust. I thought about breaking her off a piece and throwing it in her direction, as that would be the best reaction to her mean look, whether it be envy or repugnance. Whore.

I dodged the sun under awnings all the way back to work, shielding whatever alabaster skin I hadn’t covered with a suit. I got in line for what is usually America’s least effective security check. Today the line was ironically being manned by two heavyset African American women. This was refreshing, since the male guards are more often than not repulsive to the women that walk through, especially those with tight jeans. I am not saying I am a woman in tight jeans; it's just annoying to watch them ogle disrespectfully. The women guards didn’t recognize me and one of them demanded to see my id. I couldn’t get the id out of my pocket without first removing the slice of wheat bread. With the bread in my hand, the following conversation took place:

Guard (G):That ain’t an id. That bread.
Z: Sorry. My id is in here somewhere.
G: Why you givin’ me rye bread?
Z: I’m not. It was just in the way of my id. And it’s wheat bread.
G: You know, we allowed to eat here. You don’t gotta sneak food in the building.
Other Guard: [mumbling] In your damn pockets.
Sassy woman in line behind me (SW): What’s the damn hold up?!
G: This boy got bread in his pocket.
SW: That’s cuz he need to feed his skinny ass.
[all sassy women involved laugh]
G: Alright baby, you can go. Next time bring a lunch bag.
SW: Check his other pocket for dessert!
[all sassy women involved laugh]
[Z walks away, dejected, crying on the inside, blushing, now pink as his shirt]

And…scene.

Take home lessons:
1) It’s simply futile to try and sneak food past a gaggle of overweight security guards. Guns, bombs, maybe even anthrax, but not food.
2) And a good slice of bread is worth any amount of embarrassment it may unexpectedly bring you.

Oh, and some people have been complaining that there hasn’t been enough Sandy-love on the blog lately. I couldn’t agree more. Here’s a Sandy quote of the day, regarding babies having babies, while on the phone with someone I presume is a friend (or at least someone she's met before- though maybe not):

“Bitch can’t even call WIC! If the stinky ass bitch would just keep her funky ass legs closed for one day of her life, she might not have stupid kids she got to kick around.”

I am not sure what it means, exactly, but what exquisite imagery! It kind of just tackles all five of your senses and beats them into submission, doesn’t it? Sorry enterprising marketers, Planned Parenthood has already called inquiring about buying the rights to the phrase to use as their new slogan.