Phil: So, how did you fare in your Scrabble Tournament? I have to hand it to you, you’ve managed to take a relatively innocuous board game, usually played only by retired English majors, and turn it into something akin to a bloodsport. That’s a pretty manly accomplishment.
Steve: I remain the Champion of the World after defeating my pal Frank in a 16-9-1 mental bloodbath. Twenty-six games in four days. That wouldn’t be considered abnormal or anything, right? We would’ve played even more, but we had to schlep stuff in the rain at the Frugalista Flea Market and go to dinner parties and other distractions.
Phil: I doff my sombrero to you. Speaking of sombreros, it was Cinco de Mayo last week! The day is particularly festive for the Fountain household because it’s Chris’ and my anniversary (our 29th, if you must know). I take special pride in the fact I managed to get the date of our wedding to coincide with another special day. Pretty clever, huh? I knew I was the kind of simp who would fail to remember an anniversary, but even I haven’t been able to let Cinco de Mayo get by me. Thus, no forgotten anniversaries! I know the brotherhood reading this out there are saying, “Man, wish I’d thought of that!” Well, chalk one up for the cartoonist, baby! Besides, I always liked the Bob Dylan lyric, “I married Isis on the fifth day of May . . .”
Steve: Doesn’t explain why we got married eight days before Christmas. “On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a lifelong anni-vers-a-ry!” I remember it every year, though. That one falls into the category of “forget at your peril.” I congratulate you on your foresight.
Phil: Well, the trick was getting Chris to go along with it. Fortunately, she was pretty liquored-up most of the time and was generally agreeable … hence, the wedding. But she’s sobered up since then, so I have to take measures to ensure my personal safety. Should I screw up another birthday, holiday, whatever, you wouldn’t be congratulating me on my foresight, you’d be picking it up off the floor with the rest of me.
Steve: I only take tips.
Phil: Well then, never play cards who has a man who has a state as part of his name. That’s the best tip I can give you.
Steve: Thanks, Tex. At least you have your health. You could have the swine flu, which is much smellier and muddier than regular flu.
Phil: I think the whole flu bit is just Porkdom’s revenge. “Sure, go ahead, have that extra side of bacon and see how you feel later.” Denny’s will have to start giving free inoculations with every Grand Slam breakfast they serve. No telling what this will do to the hot dog industry. It’s possible that the rat feces will become the least harmful ingredient in your corn dog; I think it’s probably the most nutritious and least fattening, as it stands now. Honestly though, doesn’t it seem that we have these “pandemic” scares every few years?
Steve: Every few weeks. If it’s not the flu, it’s anthrax or e-coli or some other bug that’s going to kill us. Or it’s the food we eat (since you mentioned corn dogs in such a delectable way), or the booze we drink. Everything’s bad for us, even sleep. You’re always hearing about people who die in their sleep. Now I’m afraid to close my eyes. What’s a fella supposed to do? Lock himself in the house all the time, communicating with the world via e-mail while watching televised sports all night? He-e-ey, wait a minute . . .
Phil: I think I read recently that prolonged Facebook sessions cause brain atrophy. You’re not safe anywhere. I know for a fact televised sports is going to be the death of me, The freakin’ Lakers are giving me an ulcer. I ask you, Steve, is there any way to turn these societal plagues into something positive? You know, harness all that bad juju and use it to our advantage?
Steve: What if you could send e-coli the way you send e-mail? I’ve got some ideas about worthy recipients.
Phil: Yes! Or maybe even some more insidious bio-carrier! Like…
Steve: A corn dog.
Phil: Brilliant! All this talk is making me hungry. You know, it’s almost officially “grilling season.” Are you one of the BBQ brethren? Ah, the manly art of cooking slabs of meat on the outdoor grill. The fire. The smell. The third-degree burns. Summertime.
Steve: Yes, yes. Nothing says “summer” like the aroma of singed arm hair. I used to do all the outdoor cooking at our house, but there was a referendum in our family, which surprisingly voted against “black on the outside, bloody in the middle,” and now Kelly’s in charge of the grill. But if we’re ever anywhere near a campfire, I get to hold my own wiener-on-a-stick. She promised.
Phil: Good for you. I guess I’m lucky, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been left holding my own wiener … and stick. At my house I claim my God-given right to grill all things. I have dominion over every briquet and carcass on the premises. All summer, I cook everything on the grill. Chicken, burgers, steaks, potatoes, corn, pudding, oatmeal, it doesn’t matter, it all has a delectable carcinogenic coating and a few toasted gnats not quick enough to get out of the way of my special “Saucin’ Brush.” The family looks forward to spending the season doubled over with stomach cramps and the “Dad-Cooked-Again Trots.” Wussies. I tell them to count their blessings, they could contract the Swine Flu.
Steve: I hear Toasted Gnat Flu will kill you.
