A Poor Slob Breakfast

Monday August 10^th

8:20 A.M.

I made it as far as to the front door when my stomach woke up and let out a roar stopping me cold in my tracks.  God damn it!  I didn’t=t have time for this, but I knew that if I didn't feed it, my stomach that is, I would pay the price down the road when hunger cramps forced me to do something embarrassing in which to feed thy selfish stomach.  I had no other choice except to take a couple of minutes and quiet the beast by stuffing my face.

My stomach and I have a strange and sometimes hostile relationship.  When it, my stomach gets hungry, it communicates its needs in various overt and intimidating ways.  Take the other day for example:

There I was sitting at a greasy spoon restaurant counter drinking my tenth cup of coffee, a flagrant abuse of the unlimited refill policy, when I look over next to me and see a half eaten piece of pie sitting lusciously without owner all alone on the counter.  As I eye-balled the pie my dignity and fear of public embarrassment kept me at bay, and for the moment, I did nothing to humiliate myself.  But when my stomach saw the pie, the greedy bastard immediately took over control of my brain and I found myself sliding into the seat next to me where without the aide of an eating utensil, I began using my bare hands to shovel what was left of the pie into my huge gaping pie hole like a ravenous wolf.

The eating frenzy continued until broken by a hard, rude tapping on my shoulder that under normal circumstances I would have responded too offensively with my fist.  All thoughts of offensive quickly drained out my ass as I looked behind me to see a three hundred pound, grimy faced construction worker who informed me that it was his pie that I was pounding down my hole and that he wanted it back.  A feeble attempt to excuse myself ensued, but when the pie starved gorilla realized that I was devoid of the means in which to replace his pie, I received a severe body bruising and was beat to the floor where I awaited the attention of paramedics who arrived shortly thereafter.

This was just one of the stories of the continuing adventures involving me, my stomach and the public humiliation that usually followed my feeble attempts to cheaply feed it.  The one part of my body, besides my dick, that continually got me into trouble, and that I had no control of.  Not feeding it was not an option that I could afford to live with.

Turning on the light in the kitchen I could see cock-roaches scurrying away and disappearing into the woodwork.  "F***ing son of*******." I thought.  I bet Donald Trump didn't have a roach party raging in his kitchen.  I just hoped that the ravenous little f***ers had the common, decent courtesy to leave me something to eat. With my stomach cramps increasing in intensity, I walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door, only to be blasted with a smell that singed my nose hairs, curdled my stomach and caused me to gag uncontrollably at the sight of decaying food that was dripping down the food racks.  Regaining my composure, I slammed the door shut and pondered where in the kitchen that I might have stashed something edible.  Wiping the tears from my eyes I staggered over to look in one of the food cabinets in search of something to eat that wasn't in such an advanced state of decay.

Opening the first cabinet I was greeted by a large cockroach that just sat there and stared at me with a look of intelligence in his stance.  The little bastards were no longer afraid of me, they knew I was too lazy to kill them and they took advantage of this personality flaw by setting up a flourishing fully functioning colony in my kitchen.  Besides, if I tried to exterminate the little vermin, they would probably just create a new species of super‑cockroach, immune to every poison known to man, that would build a super defensive fortress around the entrances to the kitchen equipped with super cockroach weapons and then I would never get anything to eat. 

So for now we maintained a sloppy, uneasy truce.  I left them alone and contributed to their social needs by leaving decayed leftovers for them to ravage, and they complied by leaving me some food to eat as long as I did not disturb their domain by cleaning the refrigerator or kitchen.      

Over in the next cabinet I feverishly search for and found a severely neglected box of prune‑flavored toaster tarts that were so unappealing that even the roaches wouldn't eat them.  However, my stomach was ready to receive and it knew that I had some kind of food in my hand, so I ripped open one of the packages took a big bite and chomped away.  No wonder the roaches wouldn't touch them, they tasted terrible, sort of like road tar on a cracker. 

As I leaned up against the wall my body dry heaved as I force fed the meager offering into my gullet.  Jesus, did they taste awful.  My greedy stomach, however, didn't care what they tasted like as long as the food somehow made its way down the food hole and into the boiler I had for a stomach.  With a second pack of toaster tarts in hand, just in case I was not able to find some other food source, I headed out the door retching and choking on my foul excuse for a breakfast.

As the door slammed behind me a shiver of dread suddenly seized me.  Feverishly, I ran my hands across my pockets to check for my keys to confirm what I already knew.  "Damn!." I shouted a loud.

They were not there.  Swallowing the festering lump of tar cracker I had in my mouth kind of represented this particular moment in my life.  I had once again, probably for close to the hundredth time, locked my keys in my apartment.