And other ridiculous thoughts. Bear with … it’s been a slow day
When Last Did You Get Excited Because “Dressage” Was About to Start on TV
Yeah, me too.
It’s like watching a small stream take a meander.
I will admit though, if you pass the TV and see dressage is on, you will stop and watch. Maybe not for long, but you stop and watch. And two thoughts spring to mind -
Lovely horse/poor horse and what the fuck for. And that’s about it. And yet it is an Olympic Sport. Cricket and Squash are not.
Apparently, the point of dressage is to show harmony and trust between horse and rider.
So I mounted my wife with stirrups on, reverse cowboy, and said
“Trust me, I’m a gynecologist.”
Sadly we had not built up enough trust in our 30-year marriage for her to comply. I did manage to rope her though. That’s, “ROPE” her.
So I guess trust may be something. But then I thought, what trust? In the wild, horses frolic — this is nothing more than managed frolicking.
And if you really trust that horse — take off your helmet and padded clothing and do it blindfolded.
With 80-meter drops on either side of the bridle pathway. And touch-sensitive ordnance on the top rung of the fences that can blast 5 watermelons into oblivion.
Now that I would watch.
And talking about exploding watermelons, who invented the mini 8-pack variety cereal?
With absolutely no variety.
If it was truly a variety pack, they would put 8 different packs of cereal, not 4 that are identical. Or be honest and instead call it —
“Nearly a Variety Pack of Cereal”
They now only appear at low-cost hotel breakfast buffets. If you arrive late, the only option left is the Cornflakes and Rice Krispies. You do not have to be a rocket scientist or do a survey to realise what people want. The proof is in what’s NOT eaten.
But do they … like hell they do.
I am starting a petition to boycott mini variety pack cereal. And I swear, I bought my very last one, yesterday, forever. I’m never getting 2 coco pops, am I? Be honest with me, but let me down gently.
As a child, I stupidly always had a level of anticipation wondering if this pack will be the one they fucked up and put 2 coco pops, a strawberry pops, and 2 honey smacks. Kellogg’s never did.
Those Quakers know how to Quck us over.
Always 4 of the 8 are Rice Krispies and Cornflakes. And then another one is Frosted Flakes, which are just bloody cornflakes with a bit of extra sugar. You can make this yourself with friggin sugar at home — for the cost of a cornflake or two.
And each box is not a portion. It’s a 1/3 of a human bowl of cereal.
Bastards. We are not gerbils.
You need a minimum of two mini-boxes to call it a petit breakfast. That’s French for fuck all. I feel so cheated. Not unlike going to Paris. There is no love … actually. Only dog shit.
And talking of breakfast,
How about the hotel all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet …
Why do we put stuff on a plate that normally, at home, we would never throw together? I’ll put grilled tomato, enough floury packet scrambled egg to feed the staff complement of a US aircraft carrier, 18 sausage links, a chocolate eclair, 9 mini croissants, and a kiwi fruit cut to look like a crown, on my plate. The kiwi is there to hide the fact I am a petit piglet and prove I’m ever so healthy.
And then you go and retrieve a thimble full of fresh orange juice, which is neither fresh nor from oranges. And is in a receptacle made for Gerbils.
I recall going to Atlantis Resort and gasping when they told me it was $60.00 US for breakfast. This was in the early 2000s. The Host obviously saw my face and tried calming me by saying “It is an all-you-can-eat, sir … and the children can eat off your plate.”
Cut my arm off and slap me with the wet end why don’t you?
I didn’t get into the details of my profession and how many eggs 120 dollars would buy my wife and me. Because I was getting that wifey stare. She knows me.
Instead I smiled, paid the “nice” lady who apparently isn’t the reason it was 120 US dollars, which clearly my wife did not think I could fathom out with my limited mental capacity.
The same capacity that was clever and capable enough to earn the money to be paying for this breakfast. And because we are on holiday — and on holiday you are supposed to do fucking crazy shit like pay 120 dollars for egg on toast.
So I marched in single file behind wifey to ‘our’ too-close-to-the-toilet table with a humungous glare from the overly large windows. But what a view, apparently. I was apparently also happy to be 150 bucks lighter.
When the server said ‘our’ table, I did inquire if they could deliver it to my room once we’d eaten. While the server stared at me, unsure of my meaning, my wife made me aware of the cost of continuing this line of questioning.
It was the biggest buffet I have ever seen in my life, and I tried to extract value. I lost. Mainly because my son did not pull his weight.
Why 150 dollars you ask, and not 120? … GREAT QUESTION.
My son, aged 9, having overheard the eating off my plate option, insisted he wanted his own breakfast, so at $30.00 for under 10s, I agreed. And at the table, he responded to my question,
“What do you want for breakfast?” with a five-letter word that still haunts me. I was expecting donuts, pancakes, bacon etc. … but no,
He said “JUICE!” … admittedly he did absolutely love fresh orange juice, and still does. I responded with “Juice and WHAT?” … to which he said, and I quote,
“JUST juice.”
So I said to him, between clenched teeth and a bit of flying spittle, “After insisting to have your own breakfast which cost me 30 dollars, it will be over my dead body that all you have is juice,” so he promptly stepped over my dead body and sauntered to the juice section to get a glass or two of orange juice. Nothing else.
I’ve had less hostile breakfasts at a TALIBAN Deep Cave Breakfast Reunion wearing a pork-skin jumpsuit while carrying a placard that says, Muslims Suck.
You know when you are so pissed off, that even the scrambled eggs go down your throat like a piece of sandpaper. I was reminded several times, in mime, that this was a holiday and I should put my ‘happy face’ on. The only thing that saved the little orange shit, was my wife giving me the universal BJ mime, suggesting, if you’re good, you’ll get this later.
And I thought, 30 for a BJ was probably the local going rate, so I kept schtum.
30 minutes after leaving the breakfast room, and me taking 837 Calmettes, while mumbling BJ, BJ, BJ to myself, Lord Orange announced that he was hungry.
I can vouch that he is not alive today because of love, it’s purely because I am waiting for the investment to pay me a dividend.
And my wife’s offer to get me a glass of orange juice to wash the Calmettes down did not go unnoticed either. She won’t be getting any salami tonight. Perhaps. Look, it’s at least a distinct Maybe-not.