Of Tubed Wasabi and Other Goings On

Given that the only newsworthy event of the previous week[s] was The Fair Briana's Triumphant Return, the editing staff here at BumperSmash have had a galling time forging a post worthy of our collective approval, and, moreover, one that adheres to the unique blend of journalistic integrity and entertainment you the reader expects but rarely deserves.

I am now, however, happy to report that contemporaneous with Briana's return were a series of minor happenings that, en masse, are mildly entertaining.

(1 : 100,000 Scale)

1. "So, Round Eyes Thinks He Can Make Sushi"
High on my list of Least Well-Thought-Out Gifts was my lavishing upon Briana a pseudo-gourmet sushi set. Taking into account the fact that I bestowed said gift while she was still living in Wisconsin, where access to sushi-grade ahi is not exactly the point of fishing, I suspect that by this holiday season I'll streamline the process by doling out Glenn Beck Studio Store gift certificates to loved ones and explaining where hamburgers come from to random children I pass on the street.

Sensitivity in the field of gift-giving notwithstanding, Briana and I decided to try out the new set by treating Krumbo and Celeste to a delightful evening of authentic Japanese cooking and/or traditional food poisoning. After preparing just the right amount of rice, we took our neatly portioned ingredients over to Chateau Celeste and soon set up a dedicated spilling-shit station. The floor and counter space newly rich in nutritional content, we eventually put together what could technically be called sushi in that it contained raw fish and was cut into roughly bite-sized pieces.

Unfortunately for all those involved, Chez Gallant was in charge of the nigiri, for which the ingredient list included delicately sliced ahi tuna, a shoebox-sized brick of gluey rice, and just a scintilla of scarily-labeled tubed wasabi, henceforth known as the bottled hellfire of a million lost souls.

I can safely say that the only reason Mike and Celeste are still on speaking terms with yours truly is because I sampled the nigiri first. Upon placing the roll in my mouth, I almost immediately noticed a mild sensation of heat. My next ten minutes were spent with lips upon the refrigerator's water dispenser as the other dinner guests expressed amusement at the lingering effects of my spice miscalculation.

2. "Your Wii BMI Rating Is: Whale Shark"
Another exciting [see: spirit-crushing] development since Briana's return was our unveiling of the Wii Fit, which was designed to help the American gaming public gain the same healthy body image of Nintendo's Japanese programmers.

As you have no doubt guessed, I was absolutely thrilled with Wii's assessment of my athletic prowess. Upon taking the preliminary Body Mass Index test, my meticulously-crafted "Mii" morphed from a cartoon likeness of myself to a cartoon likeness of a flesh-colored 6'5" bowling pin and I was promptly given a week to live. Then, grainy footage of Pearl Harbor newly crisp in my mind's eye, I was told that I am not only morbidly obese but also have the body of a 51-year-old.

3. "Honey, In This Economy, We Can't Afford Not To Buy These 3-Pound Bags Of Imitation Cinnamon Toast Crunch"
At the risk of being crass, I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want to get in Target's pants. It's not that I love Target; it's that I want to get it into the back seat of my old car and get it pregnant.

Probably Not The High Point Of Tony Bennett's Career

And thanks to Briana (and, more to the point, her car) I was recently able to get to my local Target location and do some shopping with just me, my best gal, and a bargain-induced bulge in my trousers. Bless her heart, Briana still makes a shopping list, but luckily I was able to do some solo exploring (two floors worth of big big savings) and came away with an industrial strength crock pot, six pairs of tiny tiny boxer briefs, a very haute shower curtain rod, enough sugary cereal to reanimate the recently dead, and, in a daring bit of last second mid-checkout-line bravado, a junior-sized box of Junior Mints.

The purchase that got away, I'm sad to report, was a cheap braided area rug that I was talked out of after a series of "We can find something better"s despite, admittedly, some tearful begging on my part. Truth be told, it wasn't the perfect fit for the look we're going for in our apartment ("Fuck, is everything we fucking own from fucking Ikea" chic), but when I'm on a roll at Le Targét, almost any rug will do.