Phil: The Cutting Board started as a masculine version of Doni and Kelly’s cyber-dialog The Dish. After reading last Friday’s installment of The Dish, I don’t know if either of us possesses the tact or sensitivity to take on a subject like (dare I say it aloud?) asparagus. I think they’ve posted the definitive article on the subject. There’s not much left for us except to attempt some weak, juvenile, schoolboy tittering on ripe, bodacious rutabagas or the like. Of course, juvenile schoolboy humor is our forte.
Steve: Speak for yourself, gnomish one. I’ve had enough of the potty jokes and sexual inyourendos. No more juvenile humor for me. It’s time to straighten up and behave. I realized I’d jumped some kind of shark when I found myself mugging with you on the stage of the Cascade Theatre while I wore an abbreviated Kevlar apron with the words “Big Green Egg” across the front. After that mincing performance, what’s a little asparagus among friends?
Phil: I gotta admit, our end of that lineup on the Cascade’s stage sorta looked like The Rockettes, if The Rockettes were bald, yet hairy, loading dock workers who had just been smacked in the puss with a cast-iron skillet. You, however, were rather fetching.
Steve: Thank you. But those days are behind me. I’m going to try to put some dignity back into my life.
Phil: Then what are you doing here? If “dignity” is something you aspire to, you might want to start hanging out elsewhere, get yourself a private booth in the corner, so to speak.
Steve: I’m just glad there aren’t any pictures of me up on that stage making a rutabaga of myself.
Phil: No pictures, eh? This photo arrived with a note threatening that unless we cease and desist with this asinine nattering this little snapshot will be plastered all over the internet. The handwriting is awfully familiar. I didn’t realize Doni dotted her i’s with smiley faces. Not too surprising, though.
Steve: Enough blackmail. How about a sports report? Since it’s baseball season, and I think baseball is less exciting than house-painting, we’ll now present a short summation of the situation by our analyst Philbert the Sports Nut.
Phil: The baseball season is entering the “dog days.” This is the time of year when teams start to show their deficiencies. It’s when a hot streak is shown to be what it is: an aberration. In baseball, you can’t hide. You am what you am. As we speak, my beloved Dodgers are still holding onto the best record in baseball. The perception that the NL West was one of baseball’s weakest divisions is proving to be another pre-season misnomer. The Dodgers are well in front, but both Dyar’s Rockies and everybody else’s Giants are leading the Wild Card race. I mean, who would have thought that back in April?
Steve (filing fingernails): Mmm-hmm.
Phil: The trading deadline just passed with a few teams getting much better while other teams obviously have thrown in the towel. The A’s annual fire sale resulted in both Matt Holliday and Orlando Cabrera being dealt to contenders. The Padres sent their ace, Jake Peavy, packing. The Pirates traded half their roster for “prospects” while the already strong Red Sox and Phillies got stronger with the addition of the Indians’ Victor Martinez and Cliff Lee, respectively. There were some big-time rumors heating up the blogosphere as the Toronto Blue Jays dangled two-time Cy Young winner Roy Halladay’s name out there. The Phillies, Red Sox, Rangers, Angels and Dodgers all made a run, but the Jays were asking for the farm and your firstborn in return. They priced him so high that now they have to keep him (and his salary) as nobody bit. There was a rumored blockbuster trade between the Dodgers and rival Padres that almost happened. The Padres were ready to send slugging first baseman Adrian Gonzalez and first-rate closer Heath Bell to L.A. in exchange for a package of James Loney, Russel Martin, James McDonald, Blake DeWitt and Ivan DeJesus. Obviously, the Dodgers balked and ended up standing pat. We’ll see how it all pans out.
Steve (leafing through magazine): Sigh.
Phil: Still two months of regular season games to play, and then the playoffs. Plenty of time for a team to collapse or ascend. But what do you care? NFL training camps open this month. Heck, the college football season is right around the corner. You’ll be able to crawl out of your summer somnambulance and rejoin the Sofa Warriors.
Steve: OK! All done? Good. Now let’s talk about the manly things we do when we’re not sitting in front of a TV with a remote in our hairy little paws and drool drying on our chins. I went swimming the other day. First time in probably a year. Wearing only a swimsuit. Right out in the afternoon sun. NASA called, and said the space shuttle astronauts were complaining about the glare.
Phil: Oh, man… same problem here. I’m told my legs look like a pair of white dinner candles, with hair. It’s not like I don’t go outdoors. I wear shorts. But, alas, no tan. I guess there are other aspects of my physique that ensure the lower half of my body remains safely in the shade. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Mr. Stubby Pinkerton in about eight years. On the bright side (so to speak), I’m not too worried about harmful UV rays or the carcinogenic effects of sunlight. Unless I forget to wear a hat. My solar brain panel blisters up like a pack of liver pills.
Steve: I’m very careful with the tanning. I can’t afford a sunburn. I’ve got a lot of surface area here.
Phil: You cast quite a shadow. In fact, you could be the second hand on the Sundial Bridge. I’m not saying you’re tall, but the FAA could use you to read aircraft VIN numbers … before they land. You’re so tall the barber needs a Sherpa to help him give you a haircut. Of course, I may be seeing it from another angle. I would be able to fit in quite nicely in Munchkinland. I could move next door to the Lollipop Guild without causing the least bit of anxiety (unlike that freak, Dorothy). So I may be a little envious of your stature. Then again, I don’t sob uncontrollably when someone turns on a ceiling fan, so maybe it’s a wash.
Steve: One time, in my grandparents’ double-wide mobile home in Arkansas, I was sitting under a ceiling fan as we watched the Razorbacks on TV. The Hogs scored the winning TD, and I leaped to my feet and threw my hands into the air in the international symbol for “touchdown that I, personally, just scored.” Brrr-rap-ap-ap. I kid you not. I suffered mere bruises to my bony forearms, but to this day there are members of my family who witnessed this event and who still call me Stumpy.
So here we are back at the beginning. Stubby and Stumpy. The Asparagus Twins.
So much for dignity.