The Close Proximity to the Proverbial Pickle

Post CXXXVII

Here’s the story of tittle, tattle, tittleness.

I wasn’t fully aware of what I was trying to achieve, but hitting the plastic bag with my slipper was the best solution I could come up with. It doesn’t have a name, this problem. But that’s complete nonsense. Everything in the world has a name. The likelihood of something not having a name is greater than me winning the lottery considering I don’t even do it. Tittle, for example. That’s a word. It’s the name for the dot over the lowercase letters ‘I’ and ‘J’. Although one is so unlikely to ever use that word that you may as well put in on your bucket list. It’s an age-old problem that I faced, readers. I was in a close proximity to the proverbial pickle. I was as close as a tittle to its adjacent lowercase letter. Hah! I did it! I used that damn word! Take that, world!

The dilemma I faced, you see, it as age old as age itself. Perhaps older. Although I don’t know quite how one could be older than old. It, of course, refers to the plastic bag. Oh, you know what it’s like. You have a hand grasping a large quantity of meat and in the other, a plastic bag. The meat needs to go into the bag. BUT YOU CAN’T OPEN THE BASTARD! People lick it. I’m not sure why. It’s one of these curiosities that make you wonder who was the first person to come up with that idea. “Try wetting it, Watson, you sexy thing, you! If I can’t figure this out, I’m a damn fool!” I have a long-standing theory they were closer than we were led to believe. Although why one would profess to such a love whilst trying to open a plastic bag is anyone’s guess. In fact, it seems to me that it suggests Holmes was in a quandary about how to announce his feelings. It’s what I’d do. “Oh, yeah, Martha, you have that fax to send, I’m hopelessly in love with you, it’s really urgent, so, as soon as, okey-dokey?” Martha? Who’s called Martha these days? Damn my subconscious. Although it does tie in with my theory that my brain is regressing to Victorian age…

Licking it never works. If anything, you look a gosh-darn tool. And I’m already a healthy 98 on the moron scale. 100 is the maximum, by the way. You know, just in case you weren’t familiar with my moron scale that I invented just this second and haven’t explained the details of. So what do you do next? Try rubbing it, that’s what. Pin it down on the counter with one hand, and with the other, rub it like that time a guy I knew rubbed a large quantity of Vaseline all over a wooden floor and spent a lonely Saturday afternoon sliding on it shouting “Weeeeeeeeeee!” A guy that wasn’t at all a grown man and who wasn’t at all me.

The trouble with rubbing it is that you need friction, and kitchen counter tops are as slippery as mustard. Sorry, I’m terrible at similes. Let me try that one again. As slippery as a conman’s excuses. There. That’ll do. It doesn’t matter, the point is, they are slippery. I’ve sat many babies down on kitchen counter tops over the years, temporarily whilst I was trying to juggle several other things, only to find myself distracted by the all too familiar “Weeeeeeeeeee!” sound. Yes. There the little munchkins are. Whizzing off down the counter. Come to think of it, this doesn’t sound normal at all. Why are my kitchen counter tops so slippery? Hmm. It doesn’t really matter. Sliding babies are merely an analogy. For what you’ll have to figure out for yourself since I lost the plot some time ago.

You can’t rub the bag against the surface of the counter. It just slips, sending your hands, your entire weight resting on them, sliding toward the wall, usually resulting in a bang on the noggin’ off the cupboard above you. Sniff. My meat was getting warm. What, what do I do? It was at that point I started bashing it with my slipper. Somewhat surprisingly, it didn’t work.

I was getting desperate. Contemplating if I could eat a ridiculous amount of meat since it had to be bagged and put in the freezer. I mean, I couldn’t get the flaming plastic bag open. The only crumb of comfort was that at least it wasn’t as bad as last time. Oh, you want to know about last time? Aww, huckleberries.

There I was, standing in a major supermarket at the end of the till ramp thingamajig (damn, that doesn’t have a name either), the shopping in front of me. The till lady smiled and gave me a bag. I peer down. ‘Oh crap, she hasn’t opened it – I’M DOOMED! DOOMED, I TELLS YA!’ I think. It’s so embarrassing. I’m there for ten bloody minutes! Sweat is pouring from my brow as the queue is getting held up by my sheer incompetence! They are staring at me! They know what I’m going through! ‘Poor guy, I just wish I could do something, so often that has been me, I just – it’s too painful to watch’, they all think. I fall to my knees in a flood of tears! The world hates me! I SUCK! And then came that one saviour, that one saving grace! Like an angel from the queue, he puts his arms around me and comforts me! “There, there, we’ve all been there, you’re not alone, we can get through this together, man!” And we RUB, and we RUB, and we RUB, until FINALLY! Together we have achieved the impossible! The dream has been realized! That goddamn bag cannot defeat me! And I bag my items, I bag the hell out of them, and I walk off into the sunset, proud as what was, undeniably, and I don’t think I’m understating this, the greatest achievement known to man! Hell yeah!

But the torment, the torment never ends. There still is my meat. Needs to be put into those tiny plastic bags. And, as hard as I try, I just cannot seem to get a break. Life has condemned me to misery and heartache.

Why has nobody invented something to prise open these monsters, to rid the world of a menace? Huh? Well I think they should. It took me the best part of an hour to open the damn bag. And you start to wonder, readers. Is this all an overreaction? The bags aren’t sentient. They’re not trying to piss you off. Oh, yeah? So that’s what you think, huh? What about when you haven’t correctly positioned the meat? Hmm? You have it all set up, you turn the bag inside out, grab the meat with it, like a makeshift glove, pick up the meat, the act of doing that turns the bag back the correct way, and then you spin it around to seal it. But once in a while, the meat isn’t correctly positioned. So you put the bag down to correctly align the meat. Once done, you then go back to the plastic bag and it’s FLIPPING WELL SEALED SHUT! ALL BY ITSELF! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE!

Oh, more proof you need, huh? More proof that these bags will always find a way to drag you down to their debauched level?

I’d achieved my bagging aims. A miracle if ever I saw one. All the meat was packaged. I started to load the freezer. I put one hand underneath the plastic bag, one hand around the twirly bit at the top, and I walk over to the freezer. I take my hand away from the bottom of the plastic bag, so only one of my hands is now holding the plastic bag. From the top, the twirly end that was created when I spun it around. And what happened next?

The plastic bag split at the bottom and the meat fell out.

*sobs uncontrollably*

American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “I’ll never go hungry, because I’m a pet owner and a meat eater. I used to own broccoli, but taking it for a walk in the park didn’t work out so well.”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read The Latest Post

Hark Around The Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read The Latest Post


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