On my last trip to Costco, I bought a case of organic toaster pastries (pop-tarts, for those of us in the know). Why, you ask, would I buy such a thing? It is because I have decided to become more socially aware.
Just kidding. Got you though, didn’t I?
The real reason is that they were on sale super cheap and they did not say “diet” or “sugar free” or any ridiculous thing like that. Turns out that the phrase “organic pop-tarts” roughly translates to “crappy cardboard tasting toaster pastries from hell.” I got all Sandra Lee on them and doused them with Betty Crocker cake icing to fix them. It wasn’t half bad. At any rate, last night, I was cleaning out my closet and munching on my granola – I mean my organic toaster pastry when I bit down on something hard. I can only assume it was a clod of dirt – which would go a long way toward explaining the flavor. It broke my tooth. Now I have to get a stupid implant because of the stupid organic pop tart. And I don’t mean the fun kind of implant either.
Being all depressed about being a 29 year old woman who has to get a fake tooth, I called my husband and told him that we were having pizza for dinner tonight. It’s not that I had to ask if he liked the idea – the man thinks pizza is the nectar of the gods and that the gods prefer the grease flavor on thin crust. I just needed to know what flavor of nectar he wanted. He told me that he wanted a “large meat galore.” A what?! “A large meat galore.” I responded in the way any normal woman would, “Okay, a large meat lovers, my darling meat galore.”
Turns out it’s embarrassing to be corrected by the pizza lady. Apparently, Casey’s Pizza calls their meat lovers a meat galore. Which is ironic since that is what I now call the hubby.