Were I to be executed, and had my choice of final meal, what would I choose for my ultimate repast?
I've been thinking about this one pretty hard, the past couple of days. Mostly because I work customer service, and it is the holiday season.
For years and years, the main course in my final meal was barbecued chicken.
Because I love barbecued chicken.
More than 2 members of my immediate family.
I'll let them figure that one out. Keep in mind Christmas is five weeks away.
But I digress.
Barbecued chicken is excellent. Done well. Nice, juicy chicken. Lightly sauced, though with plenty of a nice spicy, sauce on the side.
From time to time, I've waffled.
A nice ribeye, medium rare, with with cracked pepper and a giant plate of steak fries? That wouldn't be a bad way to go out.
Or how about a giant bacon cheeseburger? Sweet Potato fries? Big glass of Coke?
Well, I admit to myself that these are all fine, fine requests for a final sit-down.
But, I would like to point out the last several minutes of grunting consumption at Casa de Big Stupid Tommy. I would like to remember the quiet pleasure out of the simplest of meals.
I'm not saying that those other things wouldn't be tremendous.
But there is a part of me that would be satisfied, were I to be executed, by a giant bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
I don't buy sugary cereals much. Because I'll eat them. And I'd prefer to reach the pinnacle of Biggest Stupid Tommy by some manner other than overconsumption of breakfast cereal.
But the bakers on the front of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch Box hollered at me as I went to leave my store today.
"Hey!" they said.
I stopped, trying to figure if the voice was talking to me, or if it was simply the voice in my head, which doesn't speak up except contradict almost any opinion I voice.
"Hey," they said again. "Buy us."
I realized that the box of cereal was talking to me.
"Why? You aren't good for me."
"Well look at you, Jim Fuckin' Fix. Run your health-conscious ass along, then. We'll just mind our ever-loving business."
I'm rarely cussed by breakfast cereal. It is even rarer that I take it. "I will not take shit from ANY cereal, least of all the one with a guy who looks like he's the Vice President of the Pop'n Fresh Fan Club!!!!!"
So, yeah, I kicked the shit out of that aisle-stack of breakfast cereal. The beating was epic. Somewhere between the one Thunderlips gives Rocky at the beginning of Rocky III, and the one Israel delivered to the Arab world in June of 1967.
Then, as with all things involving me being violent, there were many people looking, shaking their heads.
"I tripped on this aisle-stack of Cinnamon Toast Crunch while examining the sugar content." I said, to nobody in particular, doing my best to maintain my composure. This was difficult because I was crying (I cry when I get very, very angry. I'm like the anti-Hulk). Also, I'd torn my pants at the knee, ass and crotch.
I realized then that I had one box of cereal still in my hand, where I'd been about to spike it football style.
I put it into my basket. It's important to save face with co-workers and customers.
So, I bought my cereal. I drove home. And I was watching the Predators completely take a dump on the ice against Toronto, and I heard the cereal calling my name again. From my kitchen.
Anyway, to make a long story even longer, I did not beat the shit out my cereal again. I poured a bowl of the cereal, I put milk on top of it, and I selected a clean appropriately sized spoon from the drawer (second from the right, just to the right of the sink). And while watching hockey, I ate my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
If Jim Fix had eaten Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he'd have died from a joy-induced heart attack, rather than a jog-induced one. What a difference a letter makes. Just ask Virginia.
So, as things stand right now, I'm giving a whole hell of a lot of thought to having Cinnamon Toast Crunch at my final meal.
Because it is a fine shit-talking cereal.
The finest shit-talking cereal.
I should write advertising copy.