Monday, January 12, 2009

The Consequences of Seeking Flame-Broiled Perfection

Feast your eyes on this:
Yes, it's a bag of Kingsford charcoal, sitting in phone booth on the corner of 46th Street and 5th Avenue in New York City. If you guessed it, you are a winner. Contact the prize hotline to find out what you've won.

But if you're like me, it isn't good enough just to know that there was a bag of Kingsford charcoal sitting in a phone booth on the corner of 46th Street and 5th Avenue in New York City. There needs to be a punchline too. Well, I tried, everybuzzy. I racked my brain the entire way home, and for the three subsequent hours, and I have come up with zip. Zilch. Nada. Fuck all.

I did, however, remember that there was an empty bag of charcoal sitting in a garbage can in Grand Central Station one morning last week as I made my way up from the 7 train toward the Dole plant (not pictured). Which leads me to two possible conclusions, neither of which I find very satisfying: (1) someone is grilling in midtown and not offering me any, or (2) Alex Rodriguez is trying to send me some sort of weird, non-literal, possibly vaguely threatening message.

Look, Old Bay-Rod, for the last time, I'M SORRY I DROPPED YOU AS MY FRIEND ON FACEBOOK, BUT I REALLY WANTED THAT WHOPPER. Besides, you never SuperPoke me back anymore, and you refuse to play me at WordTwist because you're too busy running around with Madonna and eating fish with Kate Hudson to spend time with your real friends anymore. You've changed, Haunted Hay-Rod. You've changed. And not the good kind of change either, where you start sending notes and chocolates at unexpected times. Leaving crumpled bags of Kingsford charcoal where I'll just happen to see them... [SMOKEY shakes his head reproachfully]... not cool, man. Not cool at all.

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