Say it ain’t soy


For those of you who follow my rantings on Facebook, you’re aware that last week I went to a vegan restaurant with Danielle and Leah.  The place was amazing!  If you’re ever looking for a vegan place to eat and you happen to be in Southampton, PA, I highly recommend Blue Sage on 232 by Street Road.  OK, OK, they ARE NOT paying me to write this.  Therefore, fuck those dizzy, air-crapping hippies.  This is about the food.  Danielle and I got to talking about how good the food tasted; I ate some kind of squash or sweet potato soup, she had the black bean.  She informed me how utterly easy it is to prepare such food.  All you need is a bunch of produce and a bit of an imagination…

After work today, I decided to swing by Giant and grab some produce.  I figured for date night tomorrow, we can experiment and make some soup.  I hooked up some spaghetti squash and yams.  Shit’s gonna be tight!  Anyway, as I was walking the aisles, I saw this dude who just looked strange.  The lenses in his glasses were a bit too thick, you know?  I tried to put him out of my mind and get my shopping done.

Eventually I reached the dairy-and-such section and there he  was again.  Squirming, I pulled a half gallon of soy milk from the cooler, placing it in the cart with my veggies.  Tubers.  Gourds.  What the fuck ever.  It put the soy milk in the fucking basket!  (Buffalo Rob)  Yeah, tangent…  I’m sure you see where this is headed.  I knew what was about to go down.  Kinda.

So I walked away to look at some cream for the soup, and here comes this guy.  Gotta be six foot two, 50 years or older.  He had a small, circle band aid on his neck.  Better luck next time, guy.  He hadn’t shaven in days, and his plain gray t-shirt had stains that would make Mr. Dunas blush.  (Roman reference)  I dared not glance at his footwear.  Top it all off, he was carrying a bag that looked like he already paid for his stuff.

Why.  Fucking.  Me?

Seriously.  Why?  I know, people, I have scars and I’m missing a hand and I typically sport a smile.  Still–even with all that–what is it about me that just invites weird people into my reality?  I swear, I felt the dude getting closer.  He was looking at the soy milk section that I’d just vacated.  It was inevitable.  Fated.  The stars had deemed it so.  That’s when I heard it.

“Excuse me.”

Fuck me. 

“Yeah?”

“Does soy milk have calories?”

Who the fuck am I, Sting? 

“Um, yeah.”

“Less than skim milk though, right?”

Are you fucking kidding me?

“I’m not really sure.  It’s probably comparable.”

“Take a look.”

Do I look like I have nothing better to do, fucker?

There was fat-free milk in front of me.  A woman who was walking aisles in the same basic trajectory as I looked over from the other side of a refrigerated island.  She apparently knew this guy was a nuisance and thus steered clear.  She and I made eye contact; waves of pity traveled invisibly from her heart to mine.  My face undeniably read: HELP ME, PLEASE?  I obliged the fellow and read to him the calories-per-serving information off the jug of fat-free milk–now in my hand.  I compared it to the soy in my cart.

What is fucking wrong with me?

“Fat-free has ninety calories.  Soy has fifty.”

“Yeah, but what about skim?”  He hadn’t gotten the update.

“Fat-free is skim.”

“It’s not the same.  Hey, what about Silk?”

Shoot me.  Shoot me right now.

“It’s just another brand of soy milk.”

“Oh.  OK.  I think I’ll get some and try it.  Do you think I’ll like it?”

Someone, please set me on fire.

“Yeah.  It’s pretty good.  I like it.”

Why am I telling this random-ass dude that I like anything, let alone fucking soy milk?

“OK.  Thanks.”   Odd yet polite.

Thank God that’s over.

For real, people.  I’m not looking for any sympathy here.  Hopefully, you’re all just laughing at me.  It’s why I’m sharing.  And I’m telling you, I walk into these situations, seemingly with my head down, unaware.  But honestly, I have no idea what I’d be doing with my self if it were not for all the strange-ass motherfuckers that seem to walk the very same paths as I.

What does that say about me?  Or you?

I think maybe I simply need to let go and admit that I’m a freak magnet.  Life will go much more smoothly as a result.  I texted Danielle to see if we can pull off the soup.   Her response was a resounding “YES!!!”  I think before dinner, I’m going to have to break it to her.

“Honey….?”

“Yes, love?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“OK, babe.  What is it?”

“I think you should sit down.”

“Um, is everything alright?”

“Well, I just have to tell you this.  It’s really important.”

“Babe, you’re starting to scare me.”

“OK.  Here it is.”

At this point, she’s biting her nails, looking up at me with those beautiful, brown eyes.

“OK…”

“Babe, I’m a weirdo magnet.  Strange people flock to me like douche bags to an Abercromie & Fitch outlet.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Bitch, please.  I already fucking knew that, duh.  Shit, I thought you were going to say you forgot the sweet potatoes.”

“Let’s eat.”

“Freak.  I looo-oove yooouuuuu.”

As always, thanks for reading!  Please comment, like, subscribe, etc….

Hey.  Little fun fact:  When I ran spell check, the only word that came up was “motherfuckers.”  The suggested replacement was “motherfucker.”  Apparently, wordpress does not recognize the plural version!  As in, “There can only be ONE motherfucker.”  Easy there, internet diary.  I’m just trying to make people laugh…

5 thoughts on “Say it ain’t soy

  1. You’re like a Seinfeld episode, but with inteligent and cursing dialogue. I fucking love it, especially the “douche bags to AF outlet” comment. Very entertaining.

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