Light and hearty observations from a fat and ugly guy. Home of hackneyed drivel and ersatz-existentialist effluence. Choleric biliousness a specialty, since 1958.

Hamburger Helper!

Well, my shlubbies (and shlubbettes!), I must tell you about last night's gastronomical and telephonic adventure. Readers of this drivel and spew will recall yesterday's post regarding my wary view of the hamburger grilling-out capabilities of yours truly. My concerns lived up to my concerns, and here's the story:

My guest for dinner was my friend Ze'ev Ionis, who truth be told is one muddled up poor old guy. Ze'ev lives in Alabama, just outside of Talladega, and has spent the last three years in a futile attempt (futile, in my opinion, at least) to establish Talladega County's very first Hebrew shul. For those of you unversed in Zion lingo, that's a school--ok? Undeterred by the complete lack of any Jews at all within, say 150 miles (most having been lynched and/or run out of town during the infamous Speedway Semitism wars of the late 1940's), Ze'ev daily plods along Main Street in a vain attempt to raise money and awareness for this all important venture. Bemused locals, who invariably greet him thus: "Hey, Jewboy", tolerate Ze'ev because he's the only person in their town who can provide spiritual guidance to NASCAR's only Jewish driver, Jon Denning.

But I digress. Ze'ev came to the house all decked out in his serious, Orthodox attire, complete with the black hat and the curly little sideburn thingies that stick down from his ears. Photo at left: that's Ze'ev, examining the decomposing fruit he found in my fridge. Ze'ev had walked here, cause it's the Sabbath. Good thing, too, as I hate having guests, and since it was the Sabbath Ze'ev needed to be home and behind closed doors by the time the sun went down. Meaning, this would be a short visit: chow on some Kosher burgers, mumble something or other in Hebrew (him), make the sign of the cross (me), argue about who killed Jesus--and then it'd be time for Ze'ev to go.

So, hamburgers on the grill for me and Ze'ev. Trouble started with the cooking pretty much from the get-go; I tried a flanking maneuver on the Weber, attacking it from the side, but it was prepared for my gambit and that was the end of that. Plan B. This involved getting on the Internet and googling "help with hamburgers".

Up popped this site with a helpful, handy 1-800 number and I rang it up, hoping to find someone there who could provide advice and a shoulder to cry on. Call goes something like this:

OPERATOR: Hamburger helper help line, may we help you?
ME: Yes, I need help with my hamburgers please.
O: What variety of hamburger helper are you using?
M: Plain hamburger, you know, from Kroger.
O: No sir, look at the box--what flavor does it say?
M: What the fuck are you talking about? What box?
O: There's no need to be rude sir! Let me connect you to a supervisor.

An interminable wait....but then the supervisor came on, and we talked, and she was helpful, and she had this low, throaty voice (from too many Diet Cokes and Camel Lights, I bet), and soon we were chatting back and forth, and laughing, and finishing each other's sentences, sorta like Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant in "His Girl Friday", and pretty soon the conversation had turned, and before you knew it we were having phone sex!

Ze'ev had long before left in a huff, yelling at me: "YOU, boyo, you think I walk here from Talladega, oy vey gevalt, just so to listen to you and this shiksa make the shtup on the phone, what, I should worry, oy oy oy?

Fuck Ze'ev, I was in rapture.

There's always a danger with phone sex and the unknown person on the other end of the line. What do they look like? Some kind of one-legged troll, the kind of gal you'd need to prop up with phone books on her legless side if you were taking her from behind? That's my biggest fear. But no worries mate, Trixie (that was her name) sent me some photos of her and when they arrived on my mobile, well, hell, that was the end of me! Lonnnnnggggg legs, long hair, dazzling smile, beautiful girl, sexy shoes even! One of the photos is at left--amazing, eh, that this lovely girl had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and now was helping people out with their hamburger problems? I, for one, am impressed!

So, the remainder of the night was spent with me and Trixie whispering sweet nothings into each other's ear, telephonically, while my right hand was busy sending semaphore to Admiral Onan. But because of my masturbatory diversions, I forgot to turn the gas grill off, though, and when the fire department arrived at 3am there was hell to pay.

But that's another story for another time.

posted by Nigel St.John Regina Smegmatica Howle-Raines @ 5:22 AM