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The Grumpy Bachelor
This latest assignment is what's occupying my brain as I walk into the Halfmast Tavern for, uh, dinner. I'm distracted and lost in a fog, so I don't notice Magillicudy set down my usual glass of nourishment. "Had your veggies today, Grumps?" She says that every night when I come in. Then she drops a cocktail onion in my beer. As far as I'm concerned, an onion does nothing for a cocktail and less for a beer. "Sorry, Lucille. I was just pondering what to write about my next assignment. What do you know about toast?" "Not much, G.B., except that that's what you'll be if you don't do something about paying your tab. Hey! Hey! is this one gonna be funny?" I'm walking down to the dark end of the bar as she hurls the question after me. She thinks everything I write is funny, whether I mean it to be or not. Lucille Magillicudy is bright, but very easily entertained. The dark end of the bar is the domain of Cujo Mike. Cujo is a quiet guy whose biggest claim to fame is that he was once on the local school board. He finished the term of some one who died in office, but lost the following election as an unopposed candidate. Cujo is so quiet and laid back that, when they forgot to put his name on the ballot he never said a word. "They were boring," he would say, evidently talking about the meetings. Nobody was sure how he knew that since he never missed a night at the Halfmast during that time. Cujo is also known for being able to make a single beer last for three days. I know, I was there; I watched him the whole time. I thought there might be a story in it, but it turned out that it was only worth three sentences. "What do you know about toast, Cujo?" "It hurts," was his reply between sips of beer. "Hurts?" "Yeah. Toast is hard." This was going nowhere, I could tell. "Ok, see ya later C.M." "A votre sante!" "What's that C.M.?" "French toast." Miss Penelope might be a better source of information on food preparation. She was once a home-ec teacher in high school. When her class became known as home-yuck, she turned to other devices to earn a living. Now she spends her time hanging out at the Halfmast writing original operettas. She is also an accomplished soprano in her own right. She will sing at the drop of a hat; or, rather, at the drop of some coins in a hat. There's not much of a market for original opera music in Mount Vernon. "Hey Miss P., I gotta do a story about toast from the bachelor's viewpoint, using irony, pun, double-entendres and other humorous devices to elicit laughter from my readers. What can you tell me about toast?" Miss P. looked up at me for a few seconds then held out her hat. "For a dollar I'll sing, for two dollars I'll tell you about toast." I pulled out three dollars just to be on the safe side. "I used to work at a place called The House of Toast. We had all kinds of toast. Toast was all you could order there. We had wheat toast, rye, pumpernickle, raisin, sourdough you name it we had it. You could have your toast plain or buttered and you had the choice of having it buttered on the near side or the far side. For fifty cents extra you could get one of those little containers of jelly, you know, the kind that will cover about half a slice of bread. The place only stayed in business for a few weeks." Summoning up all my years of reportorial savvy, I retorted, "Oh? Why?" "I kept burning the toast." I pulled a dollar out of her hat and got up. I looked around. It was early and the bar was still pretty empty, I was on my own. So here's my personal recipe for toast: BACHELOR TOAST
George Breithaupt is a copy editor and photographer
for the News. We do let him write this column from time to time but this
time he has gone too far. This article will get published over our dead
...(Cough! Gasp! Clutch! Thud!)
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The Grumpy Bachelor makes toast. Toast! They want an
article about toast. I knew I never should have done the column about
overnight hummus. What can you say about toast, funny or not.