Over the past week or so, I've had a bit of bile sloshing around for various reasons. There's nothing like a surfeit of bile to get the fingers flying across the keyboard.
One of life's most poignant minor frustrations is remembering that you had an idea, maybe even a good idea, but later finding only an empty spot in your head labeled "Good Idea". I'm finding that a similar frustration follows from remembering a particularly frothy fomentation of a rant and being able to only dredge up the merest residue of rage when needed. Considering that I'm sitting in front of the computer every week trying to pump out a column, you'd think I'd do something to harness that bile power. I should start carrying a notepad and pencil from now on.
Let's see, what was it that had me spewing so many choice words?
As most of my interaction with the general public is from behind the wheel of my commute-mobile, I'm most often "inspired" by the pricks who surround me. I guess it doesn't help that I'm a fairly impatient and critical driver. If you cannot maintain a constant speed, oscillating cluelessly in a range of about 10-5 miles per hour, I hate you. If you play Pole Position, zipping from lane to lane and back again, tailgating like mad, I hate you. If you do all of the above and still manage to get precisely nowhere, I still hate you, but at least you're somewhat amusing. If you're cruising about 5 mph slower than me and have been for 10 miles and suddenly speed up as I change lanes to pass you, I hate you. If you bust your ass to pass me, change lanes in front of me, and then slow down as if I've somehow ceased to exist, I hate you. If you drive a titanic vanity wagon that gets nine miles to the gallon (highway), as much as I realize that I'm part of the problem having bought a house in the 'burbs and commuting by car every day to work, I still hate you.
However, whinging on and on about traffic issues grows tiresome rather quickly. After all, annoyance behind the wheel is as commonplace as Paris Hilton's skanky ass. To my mind, an automobile provides enough mask-like anonymity to inspire the same behavior encapsulated by the Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory as proposed by the good folks at Penny Arcade. It's not "road rage". The label adds a false air of authority, like it's some formally recognized syndrome or complex. It makes it sound like the subject is a victim of some malady instead of simply a maladjusted, psychotic asshole. When accountability and responsibility are stripped away by anonymity, people tend to act like small children. Kids can be selfish and vicious little turds, and they don't have the added complications of sex, drugs, jobs, and mortgages.
So instead of aimlessly railing on, I'll present a simple recipe for Kiwi comfort food.
Quick Sausage Rolls
1 package of frozen puff pastry (I use Pepperidge Farms brand.)
1 chub of sausage (Jimmy Dean lower-fat with turkey bits.)
Form the sausage into a long, turd-like role, about ¾ thick. Bake it until it's done. How long? Dunno. You can figure it out yourself. Hell, it's only sausage folks.
Thaw and unfold the pastry.
Lay the sausage turd along the pastry and figure out how much of it will take to wrap around the meat, plus about 1/2 inch. Cut a strip of pastry this wide.
Brush the extra 1/2 inch of pasty with water. You can use your fingers.
Roll the sausage turd with the pastry, sealing the dampened edge.
Cut your foreskinned penis-roll into 1-inch sections with a sharp knife. To keep the pastry from sticking to the knife, keep the blade damp.
Plop the sausage rolls on a cookie sheet and bake according to the directions on the puff pastry package that you've thrown away already.
Eat 'em.
I like this recipe because it precooks the sausage, allowing most of the grease to drip harmlessly away instead of soaking into the pastry. Some would see this as a drawback, I know. I also realize that sausage rolls aren't exactly steamed sprouted quinoa, but hey, every little bit helps, eh?
Pakeha