Volume I, Number 2
26 June 2008
Just thinking about…Food
I used to think a serving size was one package. Regardless of size, one package was one serving. Now, thanks to the NUTRITION BOX, I know that my tiny bag of trail mix has 16 servings of 220 calories EACH!. So, my 30 second rummage through the bag basically takes up my requirement of daily calories, weekly fat, and monthly sodium.
So they started making these 100 calorie packs of stuff. I think it’s a good idea, but like so many others, it has gotten out of control. I think it is a conspiracy. They make them for every kind of snack imaginable. Now, I know that I can have 17 packages of Oreo crispy-guys, baked cheesy thins, and Nutter Butter-ettes. OK. Stop. Just STOP, already! You can have the Oreos, but don’t mess with my Nutter Butters! Surely Congress can pass a resolution that regardless of if something tastes like peanut butter, it is not to use that magical name. Nutter Butters are proof positive that there is a greater power. Accept it. Embrace it. Move on and play games with the Fig Newtons or something, will ya? Speaking of Fig Newtons, remember the great TV commercial with the Big Fig dancing to the jingle? Here is a picture…classic greatness. I can remember it like it was this morning…
Oo-ee, gooey, rich and chewy inside.
Golden, flaky, tender cakey outside.
Wrap the inside in the outside.
Is it good?
Darn Tootin' Doin' the Big FIG NEWTON, the big FIG NEWTON
Mr. Newton got the message across to me clear as day in 30 seconds; yet lately, every Thursday night, I am so confused as to whether Boone should have been kept on LOST in lieu of Hurley or how in the world Sawyer’s parents could have been conned so badly, or, or, or…sorry. I got carried away. Anyway, I practically end up in a wrestling match with my wife. Meanwhile, my dog keeps asking me about what the bark happened to the one dog on board.
And on that nostalgia note, what ever happened to the old time style of Ice Cream truck? You know, where the guy with the change machine on his waist jumped out and ran around the truck grabbing fudgcicles from every nook-and-crannie-hidden-super-secret door?
Now all we get is the orange van driven by Mr. McScary who I wouldn’t trust my kids around without a police escort. He’s got Marilyn Manson blaring from the loudspeaker and while I can deal with the black nailpolish, I wish he didn’t sharpen his fangs so much. Every time I hear the truck go by, I log on to see if I can find his picture on my local predator website.
Hey…do they feed the dogs in the cages that travel on planes if it is really long trip?
Just thinking.
