Toe Jam
I got my toe stuck in the damn jam jar again last night. I have no one to blame other than myself. I just can't help it. Whenever I get near the jar (which I keep on the floor near the refrigerator) I get so sexy, and suburban-like, that something comes over me, and before I know it, my little toe (the baby toe for you who aren't part of the in crowd) is swimming, luxuriously and proudly in the jar of jam.
I hang my head in shame. I know my relationship with jam (and the jar..I like the jars too) is not the best thing for my mental health. I try to wear my slippers until I'm neatly under the covers and on my way to Sleepytime Village, but I have a routine that invariably leads me to the kitchen and the damn jam jar. My Mother, who passed away almost six years ago tried to cure me of this by fluffing up my pillow ever so nicely before I went to sleep, and put extra 'Redi-Whip' on my Jello hoping this might get me out of the habit and help me lead a moral, Godly life, dedicated to sweets, tv, fried chicken, and fatty potato salad, and no, no, no, to any ideas of sticking my toe in a jam jar for delights. But it didn't work. After Mom tucked me in, I would sneak down to the kitchen (after saying goodnight to the folks at Sleepytime Village, telling them I would be back soon, to ride the white tiger to sleep) and get the jam out of the fridge, and just mess up my whole life slipping my baby toe in and out, in and out, in and out, of the glorious jar of jam that only a precious Lord could understand.
I really don't know what to do. I've tried melted butter in a glass, chicken fat pooped by a real chicken at one of my pay toilets, and many other remedies. None work. Oh, maybe what I do ain't so bad. I mean, I'm not hurting anyone (except me) and it's not like war or eating beets, or trying to flush a meatloaf down a pay toilet for a dime.
Maybe it's just me. And maybe I'm just alright.
Mmmmmmmmmmm. I feel like some jam!
Joey
I hang my head in shame. I know my relationship with jam (and the jar..I like the jars too) is not the best thing for my mental health. I try to wear my slippers until I'm neatly under the covers and on my way to Sleepytime Village, but I have a routine that invariably leads me to the kitchen and the damn jam jar. My Mother, who passed away almost six years ago tried to cure me of this by fluffing up my pillow ever so nicely before I went to sleep, and put extra 'Redi-Whip' on my Jello hoping this might get me out of the habit and help me lead a moral, Godly life, dedicated to sweets, tv, fried chicken, and fatty potato salad, and no, no, no, to any ideas of sticking my toe in a jam jar for delights. But it didn't work. After Mom tucked me in, I would sneak down to the kitchen (after saying goodnight to the folks at Sleepytime Village, telling them I would be back soon, to ride the white tiger to sleep) and get the jam out of the fridge, and just mess up my whole life slipping my baby toe in and out, in and out, in and out, of the glorious jar of jam that only a precious Lord could understand.
I really don't know what to do. I've tried melted butter in a glass, chicken fat pooped by a real chicken at one of my pay toilets, and many other remedies. None work. Oh, maybe what I do ain't so bad. I mean, I'm not hurting anyone (except me) and it's not like war or eating beets, or trying to flush a meatloaf down a pay toilet for a dime.
Maybe it's just me. And maybe I'm just alright.
Mmmmmmmmmmm. I feel like some jam!
Joey
posted by Mr. Liberty at 1:56 PM
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