04.04.01

just in case i've been a little too serious as of late. please put on donald duck sunglasses before reading this entry.

***

One drag queen, one blue-blood corporate lawyer, one new age hippie, and one absolutely tasteless yet fabulously hip 50’s style parquet floor. Interesting.

“Please pass the ketchup, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Could you please pass the ketchup. Sir.”

“I haven’t got any, my deepest apologies.”

“Oh. Nevermind.”

Stuffed shirt. I do believe he waxed his head this morning. He’s got ketchup. I know he does. You can always tell with that type. They look down their noses at you through thick, expensive spectacles, but 98% or them have a McDonald’s ketchup packet sequestered away in a silk-lined pocket of their Armani suit. If you can convince them to reveal it.

I wonder what it is about ketchup and upper-class white men. Perhaps it’s an evolutionary asset to have a hoarding instinct for tomato products. Not that I’d know. This generation is where these genes stop. Poof! Survival of the fittest, my ass. Survival of the richest, more like it. because I know that I have more muscle definition that Mr. Park Avenue, here. He’s got ketchup. I know it. Let’s give this another go, shall we?

“Sir, I’m awfully sorry to bother you again…would you happen to have a parcel of ketchup available?”

That guilty look! I caught a glimpse of it! We’re onto something here…I used “parcel” on purpose. That sounds so much more civilized than “packet.”

“I don’t believe I do, no.”

Strike two. Ah well, onto the next ploy.

“I have a rare medical condition, you see, and occasionally I have…spells.”

“Spells?”

They all hate the idea of being forced to witness something uncontrolled, uncivilized. Something that may scuff their wingtips or soil their $4,000 suits.

“Well, seizures, really, more like it. The only thing to prevent them is an enzyme contained in ketchup. I’m starting to feel a spell coming on…”

“…”

Ha! We’re getting close to the Ketchup Disclosure moment. He’s fidgeting, twisting his gold wedding ring round and round his sausage-like fingers, and I detect a slight blanching of skin.

“So if you did happen to have a ration of ketchup available, I would be much obliged….aaaaagh!”

It’s time for the pre-seizure. Now that I’m on the floor, looking quite wild, the poor fellow is visibly distraught. We’ll get this one yet, my friends!

“Uh…sir? Sir? Are you okay?”

“Ketchup…I need ketchup…”

Ouch. I think I gave myself a concussion with that last toss of the head. Oooh, he’s starting to pat himself down, as if searching for something unexpected. This is the last stage! Impending ketchup disclosure!

“Er…perhaps I might have some…How odd! I seem to have a packet of ketchup in my breast pocket!”

Am I a queen or am I a queen? He doesn’t know how it got there. Puh-leez. As if there wasn’t a bit of wilted cheeseburger lettuce dangling from his impeccably groomed moustache.

“You’ve saved my life, sir…this is terribly kind of you.”

“Aren’t you going to…er, imbibe it?”

“This? The ketchup? No, I’ve got heaps of it in my briefcase…I was just wondering if you were the type of fellow who would risk embarrassment for the life of another human being. And you’ve proved yourself most selfless…By the way, you have a piece of lettuce caught on your beard.”

“Sir? Sir?”

Strange, he seems to have fainted. Perhaps some ketchup would revive him…

***

xoxo,

moonbird

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