10/01/2008
Welcome To Centertown – Population: You
Centertown is unique; their definition of “town square” veers from the literal. While most towns in the world identify a “square” as a geometric shape with four sides and four corners, Centertown identifies their town square as having five intersecting roads, yet consisting of only three corners being utilized for local businesses.
In Centertown, five roads with three corners represent a square. You figure it out. While I could not identify what kind of business – or even the name of the business – was on the first of the three corners, the other two corners are worth noting.
Corner number two was the town’s trading post. A town of 257 certainly does not need a Wal-Mart Super Center or even a Kwik-Stop. But an old-style general store – now that could work! Enter the Centertown Trading Post!
I did not, however, actually visit the Centertown Trading Post, as I felt there was nothing in there of interest to me. When the biggest advertising message you can come up with to display on your front window is, “More than 100 saddles to choose from” you know you’re in a town that is too easily appeased.
But we did step into building three - the only eating establishment in Centertown: The Whistle Stop. I would say it’s a diner, but that insinuates a “dining experience”. And dining insinuates “atmosphere” – something The Whistle Stop is totally devoid of. What the establishment was not devoid of, however, was food. And lots of it.
Before ordering, I saw our waitress serve the two women seated next to us. They both ordered hamburgers – with each burger apparently made using the meat from an entire cow. They were huge. The burgers that is – not the women… although if they visit the Whistle Stop regularly that very well may change.
The smallest burger served at the Whistle Stop? One-third pound. That’s before the bun and toppings. The burgers were so big at that place they could’ve been used as spare tractor tires in the community if an unexpected rubber shortage took place.
We ordered our meals. Robin asked for the deep fried okra as an appetizer… and received the entire season’s crop. The basket had to weight four pounds. Fortunately, the wheelbarrow of fries I received with my chicken fried steak sandwich was somewhat more manageable.
As for my sandwich, it was not only the largest chicken fried steak sandwich I’d ever eaten, but also the best. Centertown may not be hip to what’s hot, or up to what’s in, or choose your own stylishly outdated phrase, but they certainly know how to make visiting diners feel simultaneously miserable and happy. Kind of like how you feel after going back for thirds and fourths at your grandma’s Thanksgiving table.
The Whistle Stop must be a popular place – in big bold lettering on their menu they advertise the availability of a party room that can seat over a hundred people. Impressive… yet totally unnecessary, I’d think. After all, we’re talking about a town of only 257 people – and you have a dining room that will seat over 100 people? That’s more than a third of the entire town. What kind of loser must you be in order to not get an invitation to that party?
“Yeah, we invited the entire family ‘ceptin ole’ Zeke. Turns out we just didn’t have ‘nuf chairs. But then, I guess we could substitute a saddle from the trading post… will that work fer ya, Cuzin’?”
8/01/2008
A Very Moving Experience
"So, Mr. Marlar, what's it going to take to get you into this house today?"
"Zero-percent financing and employee-discount-pricing!" I enthusiastically reply.
"Done!" he says. But then I then see the wave of reality wash over his face. "Oh, wait a minute... that was my old job. What I meant to say was..."
"Too late, buddy," I gleefully cheer. "Where do I sign, Suckerrrr!!!"
Still, our house payments are awful high even with zero-percent financing; probably due to the extras he talked us into. I'm not sure why I need rust proofing for the undercarriage of my vinyl siding, or road-side assistance for my fireplace - but then I’m not into home maintenance and repair, so I just trust the experts.
After walking through ninety-seven homes, I’ve noticed three key indicators that a house is a "lemon."
1. A "Sunkist" sticker on the garage door
2. Three inspectors have mysteriously fallen ill while checking the water heater
3. House comes with extras like helmet, fire extinguisher and Jaws of Life
Fortunately, we found the right home for us and we made the move. There must be some unknown law of physics that explains why, with every relocation, you lose or break something. Somehow, I lost my favorite 52oz Bubba Keg coffee mug. Gone! The strange thing is that we only moved two-tenths of a mile. Seriously! From the apartment to the house I could've walked the blasted mug over in under three minutes. But somehow, placing the mug in a box with bubble wrap and pot holders triggered a kind of "inter-dimensional large-goblet gobbler," sucking my Bubba-Keg into limbo where it will now float in a zero-gravity environment forevermore, bumping gently into lost airline luggage and socks who've yet to find their way back to their owners' clothes dryers.
Less than 18 hours after the move we had our first crisis involving a family member. Her name is Patches. Apparently, cats love exploring - and an uncovered floor vent is an open invitation for feline spelunking. We woke our first morning to loud meowing – from the air ducts.
After dozens of calls, we finally found two companies that contained their laughter long enough to send someone over. We also ended up greeting an animal-control specialist. Not sure how he got an invitation, but he had a truck and a really cool looking flashlight, so we let him in.
Two hours and numerous ripped-open air ducts later, we had our pain-in-the-whiskers pet in Robin's arms. We then observed something truly ghastly. Either the trauma of the ducts was so terrifying that all of the cat’s fur instantly turned gray, or we desperately needed to clean the ducts of our new home. Turns out the latter was true, which stinks because a prematurely gray cat is a whole heck of a lot more affordable.
Cat-astrophe averted (sorry - such an obviously bad pun cannot be ignored), the three of us are fine now.
While I say I never want to move again, I am open to relocating to our permanent home awaiting us in our Father’s kingdom. I won’t have to worry about visiting dozens of homes to find the “right one for me.” I won’t have to settle on a home that is “good enough.” My home – my mansion, actually – is already there, empty, waiting for me to arrive. Of course, in this world I can’t afford a mansion – but allowing God to use me, I am already investing into the home I will someday have. The perfect home, designed precisely for me. It will have all of the luxuries and necessities needed for the perfect existence in everlasting life. I have no idea what kind of appliances would be used in Heaven – that could be an entire column in itself (and then some), but I do take comfort in knowing that God knows my needs both for here and for the hereafter. Realtors will be obsolete, air ducts will be unnecessary, moving trucks will be unheard of, cats will be well-behaved.
Back on this earth, however, if the day comes and Robin and I do have to relocate, the cat is not coming out of the vents until she finds my coffee mug. It has to be in there - it's the only place I haven't looked.
Late Night Intruders…
I didn't hear anything. I didn't even sense the presence of an invader, but I was shocked into awareness when I turned on the light next to my bed. Ants.
They'd apparently bypassed the precautionary band of scouts normally used to scope out the territory for possible future acquisition. Rather, this was a full scale attack. They'd planned the incursion well, covering all areas of the floor. The ant sergeant obviously had experience with this type of assignment, because he'd ordered a formation and dispersal of his troops in such a way that it made it impossible for me to set one bare foot on the floor without it somehow infringing upon the Geneva Convention.
I looked down for a good fifteen minutes wondering what actions would result in the fewest casualties of both ants and toes. Killing ants was not a moral dilemma for me - but the thought of ant guts on my toes was. Apparently their intelligence officers had already discovered this weakness in their opponent, as there was not only no sign of a withdrawal, but a continued advancement of soldiers.
I debated picking up my cell phone and calling in to work, saying I couldn't come in due to an intruder; or perhaps I’d tell them I had come down with some kind of bug. Maybe I’d just throw the cell phone at the ants and hope they’d temporarily scatter and make an opening large enough for my escape. I had to do something, eventually. And I really needed to use the bathroom.
I mustered up the courage and convinced myself that I was no longer going to allow my fear of insect intestines to keep me from getting out of bed. The trail of devastation ran a line from the foot of my bed to the bathroom, then to the kitchen where I keep the Raid.
The ants continued marching as if they were about to overtake a summer picnic when I squeezed the trigger and let loose with enough Ant & Roach Killer to down an oxygen-mask-wearing buffalo. The battle commenced: I with my poison, they with their jaws. But the battle was short. As the assault drew to a close the air became thick with fog, and the smell of Raid “Country Fresh Scent” hung in the air.
“Ah,” I thought to myself. “I love the smell of Imiprothrin and Cypermethrin in the morning. It smells like victory.”
I'd won the battle, my foes were defeated, my territory protected. But the skirmish was not without casualties on the home front. Even in death they’re an effective foe.
The noxious fumes got to me, I began seeing plaid when I closed my eyes, and I received a massive Raid-induced headache. I had to call in sick anyway.
Next time I’m using the sledgehammer instead.
Darren Marlar is a clean stand-up comedian, columnist, and morning radio show personality. He welcomes your comments through his website at www.DarrenMarlar.com
7/18/2008
Great Is The Lard…
Quick side note. Comedians get paid next to nothing. So I don't mind using fans for occasional caloric perks. In fact, I'm not opposed to outright asking on-stage, "Can someone please bring me a Wendy’s Triple, please? I'm starving!"
When I was asked the cookie question, I immediately knew to expect the person at a future comedy show with what, essentially, was my order. However, “Matthew” apparently drives around at all times with peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies in the "ended" part of his extended-cab pickup, because he showed up less than twenty minutes later at the gig.
I didn't question the miracle - I gave thanks to God and delighted in the goopy goodness that is a warm, soft, just-out-of-the-oven peanut butter and chocolate chip cookie. After about eight cookies, Matthew then informed me of a couple of things.
First... the sweets were not freshly baked. They just happened to be in his truck. "So how do you explain the just-baked appearance, Cookie Boy?" I inquired.
"I put them on my floorboard and cranked up the truck's heater."
Umm... okay. If Matthew had told me this right off, I would've politely accepted the cookies, shook his hand, and motioned the bouncer over with instructions to make sure the person was packed completely inside the trash bin, keeping hands and feet inside at all times. But it was too late... I'd already eaten twelve of them, and saw no end in sight. It reminded me of the Butterball Turkey Hotline story when the eighteen-wheeler tried to roast his turkey over his engine. It sounded completely nuts, but hey, if you've already sampled the goodness, you don't really care how it was prepared.
Then I was informed that the true reason the cookies tasted so scrumptious was that they were made with true lard. LARD, I tell you. My brain was frantically pulling out file drawers looking for the definition, when suddenly I was horrified when it arrived at my frontal lobe. I was eating cookies made with the rendered fat of hogs and their innards. Eww.
Lard? Where do you get lard, anyway? It's not like you can go up to the meat counter at Safeway and ask for a pig's abdomen. Where did this guy find lard? Well, it turns out he lives on a farm, so lard is in great abundance, and has been in his family for generations; apparently he used some of his inheritance for the cookies. Eww.
"Another cookie, Mr. Marlar?"
"Don't mind if I do, thank you."
Like I said, once you've tasted the goodness you can't really complain. Besides, I'd already eaten 23 cookies, so what was another 36, right?
