Monday, July 21, 2003

I can only stop in for a minute. My wife is after me.

She's got parsley. She's got broccoli. And yes, she's even got beets.

And she wants me to drink them.

Now, I've long been a proponent of the Juiceman, and have waxed monotonous about it here before. Apart from the really creepy oompah-loompah inventor, the Juiceman is indeed a great invention. You can juice anything in there*.

But I draw the line. Leave the celery in its solid form, I beg you. My one encounter with celery in its liquid form was the subject of song and legend and vomit, Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray Tonic. When I was a humble bagel slinger (working for my pal Julio the Suicidal Bagel Shop Manager, who was so important to my formative years), we would "haze" new employees by making them drink a bottle of the stuff and, most importantly, keep it down for a full hour.

Beets should maybe, and this is even stretching it, be pickled and buried like little purple landmines in an otherwise peaceful salad. Or borscht. Beets can go ahead and be borscht, if that's what they want to do with their little beet selves.

I can't even imagine what sort of heretofore unknown sadistic streak lay dormant in my wife these long years that she could even conceive of juicing broccoli. It's just wrong, and I might add, against God's plan.

I must close now. I smell parsnips coming for me.

* Except beloved household pets. You probably shouldn't juice them.


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