Sometimes truth is stranger than the Cheese Shop sketch.
As I stopped by the local national-chain sandwich shop this evening to get a fast dinner (don’t laugh too hard if you’ve been to Subway before), I decided that the remaining raspberry cheesecake cookies on the counter rack looked relatively appetizing. I asked for three, and the young lady proceeded to get tongs and remove them.
“That’s fine,” I replied.
“They’re very crumbly,” she said.
Decision time. Should I follow the trail blazed by Mr. Cleese four decades earlier and just blurt out, “I don’t care how ****ing crumbly they are! Bring on the raspberry cheesecake cookies with all due haste and speed!”?
Answer: “That’s fine.”
I’m sure she either didn’t comprehend the ironic smile on my face, or else she called the police and I’m being surveilled for sexual harassment.
Sometimes you just have to make a Quentin Crisp joke as a matter of principle . . . or boredom. I blame Raincoaster for starting the mummified fairy remains movement.
I’m sure Quentin would have approved, or at least told a story about it at dinner.
Sometimes I go wandering through my IE favorites to see what stuff I bookmarked for a particular project.
I’ve got a lot of projects. Too many projects.
Being an inveterate modeler, I’ve always found the Internet to be a treasure trove of quick research for all those kits I’ll never build or will partially build. But after last week’s essay on school lunches and canned food at Teeny Manolo, I remembered the time last year when I was working on a figure of a German infantryman and started looking for info on helmet covers (yep, the hobby can get strange . . . .)
And as I scrolled down the faves list, there it was, a website devoted to reproduction field rations.
While I’m a historian by education and often interested in minutae as well as broad strokes, I’m not sure I’d pay the equivalent price of a steak dinner for this: