In Over My Head

 

For as long as I can remember, one of my biggest fears is drowning.  An understandable fear, which I'm sure is shared by most, if not all, but not something that is observed on a daily basis.  No one sets out to drown...  Well.  Maybe some, but that's a different set of circumstances and thought processes.  What initially sparked this fear, for me, was watching a movie many many (many) years ago, that cemented this fear for me.

The movie was "White Squall" from 1996, which is a story based on the true events which occurred in 1960 to a group of prep schoolers who set out to sea aboard an old-fashioned sailing vessel.  The trip is to teach the young men fortitude and discipline, but what they actually receive is a crash course in survival after the ship they're on, capsizes from being hit by a white squall, which occurred just three weeks short of their final destination.  Starring an all-star cast, including Jeff Bridges, Ryan Phillippe, Jeremy Sisto, Scott Wolf, among many others.  One scene that clinched this unbridled fear was when the ship is sinking and there's a shot of some classmates locked behind a door.  After many failed attempts, survivors are forced to abandon their classmates.  The fear on their eyes was relentless, striking a fear in me that has lasted all these years, later.  Just the idea of not dying immediately, but to watch the water levels slowly rise to the point where all oxygen is lost and you're forced to take that final breath and suck in all that water.  It's purely horrifying.

]That's not what this blog is about and I apologize for leading you astray.  It was a decent movie, if I remember correctly, so if you have an opportunity to give it a looksy, take a chance with it, it's only two hours, after all.]

Driving home, tonight, I saw a young fellow walking along the road that runs parallel to the river.  The weather being as frigid and cold as it is, the decision to walk that route, especially when the next set of houses isn't for, at least, a quarter mile or so.  My imagination, as it often does, began to race at all the infinite possibilities of what may be going on.  Perhaps he's unfamiliar with the city and doesn't know that walking along this route is futile.  Or maybe, and my mind went to a dark place, he's not feeling very well, mentally, and he was hoping to gain access to the river to... You know.  End his misery. 

It was at that moment that my brain abandoned the young fellow and immediately began analyzing my own fears concerning drowning.  The thoughts raced through my head like ponies at the Kentucky Derby.  I vocalized, out loud, how it horrified me.  Then I paused...

What if I was tossed into a lake of gravy?  I love gravy and as much as it would suck to drown, would it be so bad if it was in gravy?  Then I abandoned that idea.  A lake of gravy?  Really?  "What's wrong with me?" I thought to myself. 🤨  A vat of gravy would make so much more sense.  That's when my thoughts and concerns for the young man had completely vanished.  Now my thoughts went straight to trying to figure out just how large a vat actually is.  While I've used the word 'vat' many times as a safety word in Words With Friends, I barely know anything beyond that and what they're used for.

According to Google, and I'm paraphrasing this to simplify an otherwise complicated response to a relatively easy query, but that's Google for ya.  a vat is generally around 26 U.S. gallons.  How that relates to actual size in inches or feet, I don't know.  I Googled pictures and it ranged from a large cooking pot to something you'd store beer in.

 

I'm mostly curious about the size of a vat, because I believe, if it was beef gravy, like illustrated above, that I might be capable of drinking myself to safety, al la Bob McKenzie from the movie "Strange Brew" (1983).  The container on the left would be challenging but if I hunkered down and dedicated myself, like Adam Moran of Beard Meats Food fame.  (If you don't already, look him up on YouTube.  His videos are as fun and enjoyable as they are challenging to watch - sometimes.😄)

Of course this is all ridiculous.  It's in my nature.  It's how I entertain myself.  I hope this entertained you, as well.  No use in being serious all the time.  What's the use in that?  No fun.

 
Strange Brew / Bob McKenzie (left) Adam Moran "Beard Meats Food" (right)

Algebraic Equation

 

Are you like me?  Struggling throughout the annuls of time, trying to find the exact ratio of cereal to milk.  That's me on an almost daily basis.  Not once, since I was knee-high to a gnat, have I been able to find the exact quantity necessary to marry up with the precise volume of milk in order to not consume more than the desired amount of breakfast substance.

I start each day by filling a desirable amount of cereal, whether it be Shreddies, Corn Flakes or even a chocolatey treat like Nestle's Quik or Chocolate Lucky Charms (because of the marshmallows), I can never pour a perfect amount of milk.  Either I'm left with an obnoxious amount of milk after the cereal has been consumed, of which I'm not going to drink out of the bowl.  I'm not a damned animal, after all.  Besides, the milk doesn't taste well enough on it's own to be drunk in such a barbaric manner.  So I'm left with the only option.  Add more cereal.

The extra bowl is welcomed, sometimes, so it's no big whoop, but then the milk runs out, leaving half a bowl of cereal flying solo.  That's not good either, so out comes the jug and more milk is added.  This is where it becomes tricky.  I tend to add too much milk, the second time 'round.  It's not voluminous, but it's enough to throw off the ratio, leaving me once more, with an ample amount of milk in the bowl and no cereal, so the bitter circle begins all over again.

I've found myself, time permitting, in the past finishing off an entire box of cereal before the exact equation of how much to put with how much is ever ciphered to completion.  This happens more with the sugary cereals.  They're not just a source of vitamins and minerals, but they're also a tasty snack.  The nice thing about the latter cereals is that usually, the milk turns chocolate brown and it is somewhat tasty, although, I still refuse to drink from the bowl.  On account that I'm not an animal.

I don't recognize this mission as OCD-related, although I have experienced a similar problem when consuming ice cream.  I live alone so I tend to not use a lot of crockery.  In that, I mean, I drink from the bottle or from the milk jug (chocolate), rather than dirty a glass or cup.  With ice cream, it's the same.  I tend to eat it right out of the container.  (If I'm going to have company, I get a new tub of ice cream.  Like I said before, I'm not an animal.)

With the ice cream, I tend to try to finish with the ice cream being perfectly level, before I can return the lid to the container and place it back in the freezer.  Only problem is, I'm so picky that the ice cream MUST be completely flat with 90deg angles up against the wall of the receptacle.  Anything less than perfect, gets carved out and placed onto my tongue.  I thought I was the only one facing this dilemma, until one night I was watching late night TV and saw comedian Gary Gulman discuss the fact he does the same thing, often resulting in an empty bucket, just like me.  I laughed so hard at the premise because it wasn't just a funny anecdote, but a detailed historic recollection.  Almost like Gary, himself, were peeking in my window, taking careful note of my process.

After the show, I took to Twitter, complimenting Gulman on his very funny stand-up appearance, adding that I did the same with my ice cream.  It was a nice exchange.

I tend to have that problem with a number of factors in my life.  I use too much ketchup when placed on the side of my dish for French fries or bacon.  Too much gravy on my meat and potatoes, but really.  Is there such thing as too much gravy?  I think not, so I might be onto something there.  Hmm.

The question in every high school mathematics class is "When am I ever going to use this in real life?"  I've only come across, in real time, occasions when an algebraic equation might come in handy.  Most recently was just twenty minutes ago, as I was fighting to pour the proper amount of milk into my cereal.  Needless to say, but I will anyway.  I failed miserably.

Litmus Test

I've heard it said: Don't ever meet your heroes, they're never what they seem.  This is likely true, for the most part, otherwise there'd never be such a warning.  I've met a few people that I've looked up to, and (so far) they've been quite humble and respectable.  I'd never consider bacon, on the other hand, to be heroic, nor an idol to look upon fondly, although I do love that smokey taste when it's being gnarled between my teeth.  That being said, when the commercials for the new "Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza" from Little Caesar's began their shock and awe barrage on public television, I knew it was only a matter of time until I would visit the pizza chain.

I used to consume a shit-ton of fast food.  I'm lazy and tend to procrastinate a lot, so the thought of driving up to an establishment, paying for a tasty treat that required very little more than wiping my mouth and fingers with a moist towelette, was very appealing.  Unfortunately, several pounds later and a sad case of Type II diabetes, it's a rare treat, these days.  Unreasonable prices are also a major factor, though the spare tire around my middle section, should be suffice enough.

One contributor to the nastiness is KFC.  Generally, I would visit Kentucky Fried Chicken once a year, consume the chicken accompanied by their amazing gravy, then reap the uncomfortable sickness that would follow.  Like the consumption of alcohol, I would use this single experience like a Litmus Test.  A reminder as to why I don't submit myself to this kind of pain and discomfort more often within the calendar year.

I wouldn't categorize myself as an alcoholic, but the effects of sadness and depression that follow any drinking excursion isn't something I particularly look forward to and therefore reserve inebriation to once or twice a year.  It's pretty much all I can take.  I'm not a believer that a person can go for one or two drinks.  I do believe, on the other hand, that intoxicating oneself to complete annihilation, should be the goal.  For the most part, I find alcoholic beverages to taste tremendously bad, so why put yourself through that dissatisfaction, if there's no goal of inebriation to achieve?

I digress.  I'm getting completely off topic, to which I apologize.

Earlier this month, some coupons came in the mail and the varying pictures of KFC chicken became appealing to me.  I was about due for my yearly trek through intestinal hell, so I ventured down to the neighbourhood KFC and got a small four piece and brought it home.  However, the gut aches and feeling of vomiting that normally piggybacks the experience never came, although the meal was every bit as greasy and disgusting, as usual.  A couple weeks later, those coupons crossed my view and again I found myself placing an order for a four piece chicken box.  Once more, no nausea.  "What the f**k?!" I thought to myself.  A couple weeks later, this past Friday, I again went down and picked up a ten-piece bucket, this time and no nausea.  No feeling of dread or yearning to vomit.  "Strange!" I thought.

Days earlier, I'd broken down and visited Little Caesar's and bought the Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza that has been mercilessly prostituted on television for the past couple of months.  The images of the pizza in the commercial look so delectable and mouth-watering.  I could hardly contain myself when the clerk handed over my pizza.  I raced home and was horrified by the reality of the situation.  It was like one of those before and after pictures of Rihanna after a date with Chris Brown.  The beauty I was expecting to see, was just a beat up tramp.  My Bacon-Wrapped pizza was little more than a punching bag placed into a box.

It's appearance was a train wreck.  It smelled marginally better than it looked, but it's taste was equally, if not worse, than it's appearance.  What followed was all the experiences and memories I've ever had that was normally reserved for KFC.  It was a horrific experience.  I wound up lying on my couch in a ball, sweating heavily and fighting off the urge to puke.  I do not recommend that pizza to people.  Not unless you're bulimic.  You won't need to stick a finger down your throat, as odds are, the pizza will do that for you.

It's a sad sad day when I, of all people, have to admit that Kentucky Fried Chicken is better than pizza, but in this case I think it's gospel.  Little Caesar's has turned my off of pizza and I doubt I'll be eating pizza again for quite some time.  Thankfully, when I do, it'll be from a more reputable establishment and not some shit-hole vying for legitimacy in the forum with a cheap gimmick.

My coupons expire today, so I shan't be returning to the neighbourhood KFC, which my waistband and my colon are grateful.