Words and Thoughts — June 8, 2023

Hello again, alleged readers! This week, I was reminded of the time I applied to, and briefly worked at, a deli. Unfortunately, I did not work at the fun kind of deli, rather I worked at the type of deli that is not fun. Some delis, you see from across the street, and your inner child lights up and pulls you metaphorically (or the herd of children I’m paid to walk pull you physically, in my case) across six lanes of traffic towards the door. Some delis are worth jaywalking for. Some aren’t. I worked at the “aren’t”. 

Damn the deli, and the two weeks I worked there.

I will tell you though, there are few things in life that bring the same satisfaction as burying an M80 on a three-minute fuse in a 15-pound tub of bologna salad, lighting the fuse, and locking up for the night; then waiting at the door the next morning for the co-manager, Sheila, to arrive and open the deli for the day and throwing a slack-jawed, “Wow, looks like something happened here, huh?” her way.

They reviewed the tapes. Deli management and I mutually agreed to part ways. I never got to use the leaf blower full of potato salad I had hidden in the drop-ceiling, that Sheila would, I’m told, find three days later.

Frankly, I blame them for hiring me. Regardless, to this day, I experience tinnitus whenever I see a Take-A-Number ticket machine. As such, I have been robbed of the otherwise pleasant experience that the DMV would offer me if not for my affliction.

I have several civil lawsuits currently pending in four states against the deli in light of the emotional damage. I’m not at liberty to discuss any of the suits, but let’s just say my previous attempts to bribe four of the seven judges presiding over the Utah Court of Appeals haven’t gone well, yet. If you’d like to contribute to the Go Fund Me regarding the matter, please do send me an email or something. 

And this brings me to the reason that I’m writing this week’s letter. A good friend of mine is getting ready for an upcoming judo tournament.  He has told me it’s not appropriate to call it a “Karate Party”. Nonetheless, he’s been preparing tirelessly for the event, practicing with his sparring buddies, running drills, and basically dedicating every spare moment he has to prepare for the karate party.  I finally asked him what the winner of the karate party gets, thinking it must be some glorious prize along the lines of thousands of dollars, or a Ke$ha CD. Friends, I’m here to tell you that the winner of the Karate Party gets a single, small, almost worthless, trophy of a man wearing a housecoat. 

Are you kidding me? Judo? More like Judon’t if you ask me!