To Mong, or not to Mong

Monging is perhaps my 3rd favorite career choice. Now, I know, purists will say, "But Andrew, there's too much diversity these days in the monging industry. Fish, cheese, fish-flavored cheese, sausage, ferrets." Bah! I say...after haberdashery and good old-fashioned under-water basket-weaving, monging is king! That would make it, say, a duke really. Or prince. But I don't want to get sued by a spaghetti sauce. They break-a my legs.
But the F.K. (Formaggio Kitchen, a true cheese shop in every sens of the word) would probably win the superlative of "Most likely to have an independent security force in 10 years" award, if they don't already. They could be training them in the cheese caves as we speak. Being exposed to overly ripe Epoisse, forced to breathe in an open Marcetto, and then required to spend a fortnight with only a Casu Marzu to give them the nutrients required to stave off death. Yes, my friends, you shall be doing research to see what all these cheeses are, but so be it. You see, you learn when you read my quirky mind-gunk. I'm like milk for your brain...I make you strong! I don't know if this milk=strength thing is true though, as I was forced to consume canned O.J. whilst my pre-school mates downed those awesomely-constructed 1/2 pints of milk. Chocolate even! And you know the sound of something slightly wet sliding out of a can...that sucking, slick sound, that audal Kryptonite to an already weakened Lac-tard such as myself? But I made it, weak bones and all!
Whoever invented that stuff is evil, by the way. And was apparently born without taste buds themselves. Who thinks they can really pass off frozen, canned, orange juice concentrate and not expect repercussions somewhere down the line? I hope his dog was torn apart by a pack of stray cats, or something just weird enough like that. And while we're on the subject, fruit punch flouride? Cherry-flavored ANYTHING? Where the hell did they get the cherries to use as a basis for that flavor? The fields just outside of Chernobyl?
But back to the cheese. Indeed, I fear the future, when country lines break down (as we have already begun to see with the introduction of the Euro, erasing even a small part of a country's identity with the dissolution of its unique currency), and large food conglomerates have private security forces, and wars will rage over whether American cheese should be neon orange, or that pale pasty white that I can only relate to my own skin, sans freckles. This will be known as the War of Kraft vs. Land O' Lakes, and Laughing Cow will surely be called in as the Blackwater-esque special forces. Creepy. But true!

Thought of the moment

When underlining reading materials for an exam becomes less about highlighting the important parts, and more about making sure your pen lines stay perfectly between the lines, then it's time to take a break.

There's hope for us yet.

I emerged from my apartment, and found myself behind one of the endless numbers of haute couture women that are so numerous in the warmer months here that I swear they breed in the stagnant waters of the Po River. The social elite, which is saying a lot for a city with the the highest standard of living in the country. Although, I will note, with the insatiable obsession for all things outwardly beautiful (wear nothing but Chanel, live in a hovel, that sort of thing), who knows...maybe she was homeless.
The point is, I saw this dressed-to-the-nines lady finish her cigarette, drop it on the ground, step on it, and with great difficulty and obvious hampering to her perfect appearance, stoop down to grab it and throw it away. In a trash can. Now, in a place where cigarette butts fly through the air like confetti at a Louisiana David Duke parade, it's a nice thing to see.
It's like there's a cigarette butt smoldering in my heart right now.

Je suis un poutard

Mustard rules. Double entendre. I can use that because I was just in France. I like it chunky, like my peanut butter (not of this faux plaster-of-paris crap that I see in some places.) Ha, and there you go. Faux and paris, wow, this is rife with all things Frenchie.
Why is French's afraid to show off what's inside? I guess, as a bit of an exhibitionist myself, je ne comprend pas. Those tiny globules of goodness, all mixed up with vinegar, salt....it's perfect. And the Fallon Moutarderie in Dijon showed us this, resplendent in their recorded sounds of mustard being ground (does it REALLY get any better than that folks?), and played over speakers while we stared at a centuries-old wheel of stone. Personally, she could've told me anything, that it was used as currency, that the people of Dijon pray to the wheel, it being their watcher, and a hell of a lot more fun than that Children of the Corn deity.
(I love, by the way, that in France, you can add -erie onto the end of anything and make it a store for such. It's like the -eria here in Italy, but better....because it's French.
But what else goes perfectly on it's own, a tasty two-some of ingredients? Nothing, my friends, nothing. You there, with that cocktail sauce, tartare sauce, or ketchup? You must rely on your cocktails of shrimp, your burgers of (ham?) to satisfy the saucy smear. But give me bread and mustard...hell give me a finger and mustard (preferably mine, but Alyssa Milano's, my Milano cookie, would work as well,) and all is right with the world.
Oh, and mustard cures gangrene. Don't go ask some "professional," damnit, trust me. Or, do the whole maggot thing, and then smear some mustard on them. It be tasty.
Needless to say, the mustard lady had me wrapped around her little finger, and her little finger was not so little.
This post n'est pas bien. I'm not really feeling it. What I am feeling is a screaming sinus/allergy/sore throat trio that puts the Roman Triumverate to shame. So, I was going to come to some grand sweeping conclusion about being a grand poutard, which is essentially a big mustard whore. There, I said it, you can go on with your lives, the joke's over.