continued....
We all agreed that it was a ukulele accompanying the soothing voice and the crashing waves; I was hopeful that the missus would forget about me, nestled snuggly between the tofu and wheat germ. Someone with a high pitched green voice laughed, “The missus hasn’t had time to think of supper today. Maybe she’ll just make reservations.” Everyone around me was laughing but I didn’t know what reservations are. Finally ketchup that was turning redder and redder whispered, “That’s when cooking the food is someone else
s concern. We don’t know where they go but they always come back with a small white box that stays in our hood a couple of days and then leaves never to be seen again.
Then we heard the music get cranked up, we could feel the vibrations as the missus hula-ed around the kitchen. With fond memories of a belated Hawaiian honeymoon trip, the missus cried out, “It’s a perfect loco moco evening. I’ll just use some of that delicious roast as a sub for the ground beef!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! From the same person who had lovingly massaged me with onion soup just a few days ago was now insulting me with the most disparaging insult—me, subbing for that lazy, cousin of mine who changed his name after inheriting some dough. Tofu tried to calm me down. “You will have a soft fluffy bed of rice to lay on and you’ll be covered with warm suntan oil. And you won’t be alone. The missus will want an egg for her ‘authentic’ moco loco.” Changing the subject to get my mind off the inevitable, I asked where yogurt was. Tofu said for me not to worry about yogurt. Yogurts that are more active would be moving in soon. I heard a chorus of “alohas from the out of date bottles who are known to live on the edge.
Coming soon the conclusion...."Going out in style!"
