Welcome again to Miscellanal, the unpopular column about popular culture.
THE HIGH PRICE OF FREE FOOD: How do you explain it?
Okay. You have a large number of impressionable young people ... let's call 'em "fans." And they'll do just about anything to emulate their favorite celebrity. Go to nutty, even neurotic extremes to "be like him" (as if that were possible), even if that means: rarely leaving their apartments; possessing excellent social skills but choosing not to use them; avoiding interaction with others whenever possible.
Anyway, that's how I explain it. Why I'm never pestered by my fans.
Never, that is, until recently.
I spent quite a few sleepless nights not long ago complaining about Denny's Friday Night All-U-Can-Eat Shrimp Fest. Perfectly good shrimp, $6.99, all you can eat. And after about 12 hours you find that your table has been cleared off simply because you got up to pass along the products of your digestion in a safe and legal manner.
Hey, Mr. Denny? Some "Fest."
So I decided to start casually using adult diapers.
First, let's get one thing straight: "adult diapers" is a misnomer. They are not "diapers," for god's sake. They're really more like form-fitting undergarments that retain human waste. And, because you use the bathroom less often, they're great for the environment. More importantly, they allow you to enjoy your shrimp in privacy and comfort.
It used to be that a shrimp dinner was merely a shrimp dinner; no more than that, and no less. Now it is a complete week-end getaway. When I am rested and feeling my best, I can continue eating right through the occasional cat-nap. And when the sun of Monday morn begins to rise I know that it is time: I am a busy man and there are things that I must do. I carefully gather up my belongings, and dab myself clean. "See ya again soon," I mumble to my shrimp dinner as I head out into the day, but not before -- as a way of fighting corporate greed -- not paying for it.
By the way: this is, in my opinion, the only valid use for adult diapers. Those who cannot control their bladders belong in a mental hospital.
Well, I explained all this to you in a column six weeks ago, as you are of course aware. And you are happy to read it again and all, and that's fine, I salute you. But wait. There's more.
So I was sitting there last Saturday night. Another 36 hours to go, but I had paced myself. The shrimp was making me nauseous but I ignored that because I am not controlled by my emotions. I was pretending that Bill and Melinda had joined me for dinner, and I was writing an item of miscellany about that. Seems they'd decided to bring their children along, and I looked up as if to complain about that ... when something caught my eye. Interesting. Seated around the restaurant, a dozen grown men wearing adult diapers.
So. My fans. We meet at last. You who just moments ago would have been, if I had formed an opinion about you, a riddle wrapped in an enigma perhaps. I examined them with a cursory glance, seeing in them a host of lesser twins: stocky, well-fed, hard-working men, flush with free shrimp, taking no undue pleasure in this grim task of sustenance. Left hand stabbing out for la mer's deep-fried bounty, right hand scribbling miscellaneously. Ruddy-faced with boredom. Blooming Depends putting a pucker in the seat of each pair of stretch-pants. One man had his diaper on outside his pants ... perhaps I had not expressed myself clearly enough for him.
Good sirs. I left immediately so unfortunately we didn't get a chance to say hello, so let me make use of this opportunity: hello. It was gratifying to see you. You all appear to be fit, attractive, and you are I'm sure well on the way to accomplishing whatever goals you have managed to set for yourselves. I thoroughly enjoyed our evening together, but it is my sad obligation to inform you that we will not be gathering in that way again. Because, I'm sorry, gentlemen: you smell.
Perhaps you were unaware that Miscellanal is now available via home delivery. Each week, one 8-1/2 by 11 page in a clean plastic sleeve detailing a variety of pop culture misgivings and concerns. Only 14.95 plus postage for a one-year subscription. If I am fatigued I will be riding my Pokey so I will expect you to provide wheelchair access.