The other day, as I was about to put the little missus into preventive detention (to keep her nagging from wrecking my delightful, male-only repaste of sitting on the sofa, reading a book, drinking a tall cool beverage and ingesting a comestible of excellent felicitude, in this case a thick juicy porterhouse steak (rare to the point of bloody - none of those wussy, espresso-drinking , urban well-done steaks for this hombre - and no salad, either. If the Pope meant for us to eat Salad, the communion would refer to the "Body and leaves", not the "Body and blood, and I'm not going to violate 2,000 years of wisdom) and reading a book (the depressing socialist Edward Said) and watching WWF Smackdown on TV, it occurred to me - what if there's a diet beverage in the house? Or a lesbian?
So I slipped from said sofa, set said sad Said aside, set said saladless steak and sour mash asunder, and said to said smack "so sad but sorry", and inspected said domicile until I was assured it was free of said aspertame and said lesbianitude.
It's a good thing, too, because I found a packet of NutraSweet.
How do people eat this stuff?
I dumped it into a glass, poured MacAllum Locker-Cured Dual-Malt over it, and then shot it with the little lady's .38.
Then it was back to the TV.