Heads Or Tails: Is There A Preferred Difference?

Butter chicken on a bed of Basmati rice.  That's what I had for dinner, last night.  Quite a tasty treat, until a few hours later when I burped and the taste was not equal to that which I'd consumer hours earlier.  I like the sweet sharpness of the curried chicken, but add in stomach acid, when it revisits my taste pallet later, it's horrifying.

Grape, 7-up, Cream Soda, or Cherry Coke, I think my favourite flavour to come up with a throaty belch, would undoubtedly be that of Root Beer.  The fizzy sweetness is still present for doubling down on the refreshing taste.  A second to that would most likely be from a chocolate milkshake.  Drink one of those too fast and you don't have to wait the formality of a couple hours.  One burp of that chocolatey goodness, will bring a smile to your face like no other. 😋

I enjoy burping.  The louder and more obnoxious, the better.  It's a gift that I don't mind sharing with all those around me.  What elevates the enjoyment of not excusing myself afterward.  The disturbed looks of utter disgust is unequalled until they realize that I'm not going to excuse myself, then the appearance of ultimate revulsion warms over their face like a plague.  This brings unbridled joy to me. 😊

I used to like farts, too.  Especially the "silent-but-deadly" variety.  Sidling up to an unsuspecting person in a crowd and unleashing the stealthy fury, then quietly watching the panic and disgust as the victim flees to escape the unrelenting wrath.  Some people are good at video games...  I choose to hone my skills in other ways.  While this isn't something that can be enjoyed by masses, unless video recorded then shown on the Your Mom's House podcast, peppered with laughter from main mommies, Tom Segura and Christina P, the joy is retained to just me.  My fondest moment of this is standing in line to clock out at a job.  It was my last day at a job I did not enjoy.  I quietly broke wind just as a young Filipino woman strode up behind me.  There was a slight pause, before I heard her sweet accent utter the words, "Oooh.  Ees SO steenky."  I looked back to witness her face all scrunched up, like an old potato left on the kitchen counter for too long and her hand waving franticly in an effort to clear her sinuses.

A nice loud and boisterous fart is nice, too, but they scare me.  I'm at an age, now, where if I attempt to force out a loud booming fart, there's likely going to be some shrapnel that accompanies the flatulence.  Sharting is NOT enjoyable, by any means.  I'm sure there are some crazies out there who do enjoy the warm pasty feeling filling their shorts when a squirt happens, but not this guy.  Homey ain't playin'.  False alarms do happen.  I'm sure everyone has squeezed out a fart and it felt like something wasn't as it should be, but upon further investigation, happily learn that the fart was a dry one.  When this happens to me, I always buy a lottery ticket, before that luck runs out.  Overall, the quiet farts are awesome, but I don't know if I'd call that my favourite.

Sour burps suck.  Any time that stomach acid comes up to say "hello", sucks big time.  These always worry me, as my father suffered from "sour burps" for many years, drinking back glass upon glass of baking soda and water as a means to appease the indigestion that he was experiencing.  If only he had visited his physician and had some tests done, then perhaps they would have discovered the Esophageal Cancer that was forming in his throat and he could have been treated in time and survived having cancer.  Chalk that up to 20/20 hindsight.

Like flipping a coin.  Heads or tails.  Which do I prefer, overall?  Do I enjoy the intensity of a hearty belch or the grunginess of a nasty fart?  It's obvious I've done a lot of thinking on this matter.  More than a normal person would or should.  During the pandemic, I don't have a lot of things to occupy my time, so my thoughts tend to wander and when it does, it tends to question things that the normal mind may never conceive.  That's just a part of my charm, I suppose.

The verdict:  I'm going to have to say I like burping over farting.  Mainly because it's something that even an unsuspecting bystander can enjoy.  That's me.  Bringing happiness and joy to the masses during these trying times in the Coronavirus Pandemic, as well as the years to come. 😁

 

Impromptu Visit

Years ago, I found myself startled awake from a deep sleep.  Nightmares have never been something I've been prone to.  That's not to say I haven't experienced them, but not at the frequency that I know others have had.  On that particular night, I recall consuming a chocolate Easter egg or bunny before turning in for the night, and I immediately attributed the scary dream to the chocolate intake that evening.  Weeks later, I tried an experiment to see if I could get a repeat performance and while the dream that I had wasn't on par with the fright experienced that first night, the dream that I did have, was messed up nonetheless.

As I stated, I've had nightmares from time-to-time, but not like some unfortunate souls who are bombarded on a nightly basis.  Not to say that the few that I've had, haven't been frightful in their own right.  Usually, the dreams I have, concern the paranormal.  I see ghosts and apparitions in these dreams, but hardly ever anything to cause me to awaken in a panic with beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks, but serious enough to cause me to "sleep with one eye open".  Last night, though, as I began to fall asleep, I experienced something that felt borderline real.

I dreamt that I was on a city street, but not the one where I reside.  It was dark and the buildings around me appeared to be grey and blue in the dying light.  I was alone, when suddenly I was knocked to the ground by an unseen force.  The effort to turn over onto my back was easy as this thing, this entity, spun me over with a simple swipe of this jagged claw.  The creature appeared to be the blackest black I'd ever seen, darker than the shadows that surrounded us.  It had a faint blue aura outlining it's darkness and it's eyes...  It's eyes were the only source of light, albeit dark and grey as the same time.

It snarled at me with a mixture of anger and anguish as it leaped on top of my prone body and began swing it's jagged clawed arms back and forth, slashing me apart, howling and growling throughout the horrific ordeal.  I did my best to shield myself, but was failing miserably.  I can recall being confused and horrified throughout the attack.  Genuinely fearful for very own survival.  Then I woke up.

I looked around the dark room, realizing it was just a dream.  That I was, in fact, in the safety of my bedroom inside my house.  I looked beside me and the space was empty.  I immediately called for my cat, Monkey, to come and "protect me".  In the meantime, I closed my eyes, once more.

My eyes were only closed for a few seconds, an elongated pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkened room better, but when I opened my eyes, my gaze was met with the demon creature that I'd just dreamt about.  Only this time it was in my room, standing before my bed, inches from my face. It stood just under four feet tall, completely devoid of colour.  Darker than the darkness around it.  This time it looked down at me, flashing a jagged smile, as if it were about to finish the job it had began inside my dreamscape.  Just as it raised it's furled claw to take it's first strike, my cat, leaped onto the bed, passing through the darkened creature, which immediately dissipated into a vaporous cloud.

The room was empty.  What little light there was, lit up the room enough for me to recognize that it was just me and the cat who remained.  The remark I'd made earlier, pleading for the cat to come and "protect me", actually came to fruition.  He really did save me, I think.

The cat curled up on his corner of the bed, I folded my arm around him and whispered, "Thank you."  I closed my eyes and we slept peacefully, side-by-side, until morning.

I don't know what the cause for the impromptu visit was.  I don't know what the creature was or if it was actually real.  I do have a vivid imagination, but have never scared myself into a frenzy, before.  I never ate any chocolate before bed.  In fact, I had some chicken and rice about two hours before.  A healthy late night snack rather than a sugary one.  Only time will tell, I suppose.  If I survive the next encounter with this demonic creature, though I'm hoping never to cross paths with it again, I will certainly share that experience in this blog, as well.

    

(Image is similar to the creature that attacked me in my dream, only that one had long pointier ears.)

Fudge Packer

Last week, I was in a particular mood.  For some unknown reason, I had a hankering for some ice cream cake.  In my youth, whenever I would get such a craving, I would answer the urge with a visit to Dairy Queen.  I don't know what the recipe is for their soft-serve ice cream, and frankly I don't care what the process is that goes into it's smooth velvety coolness.  I just know it is a delight when I feel it ooze down my gullet.

Granted, the folks at DQ tend to work a lot with a variety of nuts and alike (and that's just the people who work there - BA DUM BUMP), and the fact that they also make their confections with an abundance of peanuts and other legumes, makes my visits even more sparse.  I have a nut allergy.  Bad enough to put me in the hospital..., or worse.  However, on rare occasions, I throw caution into the wind, cross my fingers and hope for the best.  Hope that no cross-contamination has occurred in the preparation of my forthcoming ice cream treat.

So last week, when I got that rare craving for ice cream cake, I found myself walking into my local Dairy Queen location, with a grin on my face.  In the past, I'd always resorted to getting the "pizza"-style ice cream treat, but all they had this time 'round, was shit with peanuts and pecans and a whole host of other shit that should never find their way into any desert dish, let alone my ice cream bowls.  My eyes, instead moved to the cakes and logs.  

The prices have risen quite substantially since my last purchase, so an actual round "cake-style", was out of the question, as they neared the $30 mark.  I opted instead to go with an ice cream log.  The price was just south of the twenty dollar mark, still a little pricey for this thrifty soul, but the cravings overrode my self-respect and I found myself quickly exiting with a ice cream log in tow.

I'd never had a log that consisted of the ingredients that this treat did.  The bottom layer was soft chocolate ice cream.  The next level was crumbled cookie, then a thick layer of frozen fudge.  After that was Dairy Queen's trademark soft-serve vanilla ice cream, then topped with a subtle layer of whipped cream and dusted with rainbow-coloured sprinkles.  By this description, alone, I shouldn't have to inform you that this was tasty as a motherf*cker!  However, I'm going to tell you anyway.  This was tasty as a motherf*cker!  YUM, with a capital MMMMMM.

The ratios of each participating ingredient was perfect.  The only complaint I would air, and it's not really a complaint, but it would be the fudge.  The fudge is packed into the log, insanely tight.  I don't know the methodology used by Dairy Queen for packing the fudge into an ice cream log, but whomever is saddled with that task, is probably one of the top fudge packers in all of the industry.  If fudge packing were an Olympic event, then Canada would most certainly take the gold medal for fudge packing at this summer's Olympic Games in London, England.

Where does a person learn such a craft as fudge packing, and how many hours per day of fudge packing, did this individual have to endure, to become the champion fudge packer that he (or she) has become.  I feel bad, assuming the mystery fudge packer is a male.  I'm sure that a woman could also pack fudge in such a fashion, as well.  Although, given how tightly the fudge is packed into this log, a lot of upper body strength would be required.  The mystery fudge packer, in question, packed quite a wallop, getting that fudge packed in there so tightly.

I suppose, in a day when nearly everything is mechanized, it'd be easy to speculate that the fudge packer is not human at all.  That it's actually a robotic machine of sorts, that continuously packs fudge everyday.  The machinery alone, though, required to pack fudge into the logs so tightly, would be quite large and complicated.  Likely, it'd take up considerable room, and the Dairy Queen in my neighbourhood, is not that large, nor would their sales of ice cream logs (or any other fudge packed confection) would be high enough to warrant such a pricey contraption.  I prefer to think that Dairy Queen keeps the process close to tradition and uses human fudge packers, rather than mechanized ones.  Plus, a machine would fail to add a touch of love with each packed fudge.

Of course, I'm sure the freezing process probably plays a part in the fudge remaining as tightly packed as it is.  After packing the fudge in there so tightly, you'd want to flash-freeze that log as quick as possible.  No one wants to contend with fudge running out of that orifice after being slammed in there.  Fudge can make quite a hefty mess when allowed to run all over.  That is not a mess I would enjoy cleaning up afterward.  Especially after hammering all that fudge up into that hole.  So a good flash-freezer is a necessity.

Whether they are male or female, I salute and take my hat off to DQ's resident fudge packer.  I would not wish to shake their hand though.  I'm not being prejudicial towards their choosing to be a fudge packer, but given the environment they work in, I can only speculate that they also handle a lot of nuts in their hands.  Rolling them between their digits, their oils brushing off and sticking to their fingers.  It's one thing to be a fudge packer, exclusively, but I draw the line at anyone who handles nuts.  No offense.  To each their own.  However, I don't wish to run the risk of shaking this fudge packer's hand, and having nut juice spread to my hands and making me sick.  Plus, if you take into account, all the fudge packing this individual (or individuals) do on a daily basis, the upper body strength would be enough to rip my arm out of the socket.  And that, my friends, would suck balls!