my jaundiced eye

the absurdities of life

Category: Uncategorized

the really royal wedding

the real royal wedding

The following is taken almost verbatim  (with a bit of well deserved MJE embellishment) from the actual wedding website of a member of  the OB&C’s family.  To be crystal clear, not one of my kinfolk. The names have been changed to protect the profoundly narcissistic.  I chose not to include the “entourage” section with head shots of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, brief bios and their deeply personal histories with the bridal couple. And sadly I could not include the “gallery” of selfies of the lovely couple taken during their jaunts around the globe. Major landmarks are helpfully included in the background of each photo to ensure that unsophisticated viewers don’t miss the sheer fabulousness of their exotic, exclusive and obviously expensive, destinations.

welcome to our wedding website!

We can’t wait to share our super special day with all of you. The north carolina mountains are one of our most favorite places in the world. We have traveled just about everywhere that anyone would want to go, as you know from our facebook posts, but we are thrilled to get to show you all a glimpse into our most happy place. Who knows, it may even become your very own happy place too! If it does, I am a licensed realtor and would be super excited to help you find the perfect property. Well, after our awesome over the top extended honeymoon in bali that is! If you have additional questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out to us. If they are real estate related, my business contact info is below.

our story

Queen-e and gorgeous george met at a second tier college in january 2011 on the dance floor at a phi delt party during queen-e’s freshman year and gorgeous george’s senior year. They hit it off that night, and george got her “number” and a couple of days later, he called queen-e to ask her out to a date party. He continued to see her that semester, riding the campus hookuphickle to visit her at the freshman commons. Her friends were super impressed that she was dating a senior and his friends were super impressed that he was “dating” a freshman. A match made in heaven for all.

the never ending wedding events!  

 bridesmaids’ brunch      thursday  at 11:00am in the holler off buck belch road

Gal’s only! You boys get out on the links!

bbq and bluegrass       thursday at 7:00pm   by the “lake”

Bring your clogging shoes and growly tummies over to the lake where the banjos and fiddles will be whippin’ up some old timey mountain music. Don’t worry about any dueling banjos deliverance stuff here, everyone in this neck of the woods is from ponte vidra or buckhead.

welcome party         friday at 9:00pm  the ugly mutt saloon

We feel bad for all of you who didn’t get invited to the rehearsal dinner so we’re don’ this to cheer you up! Like you don’t feel special enough just to be included in this super great event! But we want to just make sure, so we’re havin’ a party just for you b-teamers at the ugly mutt. We’ll have even more of that good ole bluegrass music for you to enjoy washed down with some locally brewed artisanal beer or if you’re up to it some real honest to goodness moonshine. But be careful, remember this is a marathon not a sprint.  Think rush week!

pre-ceremony welcome      saturday  5:00pm at the farmstead

Yep, another welcome party! This is to get you pre-lubed for the night ahead! Again, think rush week, slow and steady gets the pledge card! FYI girls, flats or wedges! Leave those jmmy choo’s at home cause the incredibly picturesque farmstead is all about manicured lawns and gardens and of course a barn that martha stewart would die for. And boys, black tie is optional but preferred, this is a class act.

the ceremony      saturday  5:30-6:00 pm at the farmstead

The big event! Needless to say, my dress is the best ever. But do pay extra special attention to the exquisite vintage bruges lace detail on my train and the native wildflower garland in my hair, picked that morning by my beloved.

cocktail hour   6:00-7:00pm

The bar is open!

dinner and dancing    7:00-11:00pm

You got it, more bluegrass but with enough muscle shoals thrown in to get you up and shakin’ your money makers. We’ll be switching out bbq for a prime rib carving station, sushi and lobster rolls. But we’ll also have vegetarian options, and for those of you who are doing the whole30, relax we made sure you’re totally covered!

The evening will end with personally curated fireworks as we are whisked off in a quaint horse drawn carriage! Hands up gals to catch the bouquet!

We love you guys….so please be safe getting back to wherever you are staying. Be mindful of the presence of local law enforcement (and they are everywhere) as you try to drive on the winding pitch-black mountain roads after the past three days of unbridled bacchanalia. Good luck. Really. We mean it.

p.s. My dad’s a lawyer and our liability ends at 11:00pm.

And thanks for sharing our super special wedding weekend!




Bienvenido a los estados unidos, oops sorry, sorry, my bad, what I meant to say was no eres bienvenido a los estados unidos. Oh for chrissake, this is just stupid, we’re american why do we have speak spanish? Why can’t we just tack up no trespassing signs along the border, or better yet build the wall out of no trespassing signs. Or maybe signs with a sombrero in a red circle with a line through it, that seems pretty clear.

Hey you, yeah you, the kid in the filthy blue tee shirt and diaper. You stink, clean yourself up for god’s sake, and quit with the constant crying. Your mama can’t hear you but I sure can and it’s driving me nuts. So shut the hell up. And you in cage ten, how many times do I have to tell you that the silver blanket is not edible. Lay off it, if you eat it you ain’t getting a new one. Where do you think you are, a holiday inn? Next thing you’ll be asking for cheesy egg scrambles and a frappacino.

Okay listen up, quit that spic whimperng and wailing, QUIET! I’m gonna remind you one more time, you are in a wonderful and caring facility, much like the expensive boarding schools we have here in america, a country unlike yours, where we actually educate our kids. And do you know who is paying for this? the american taxpayer, that’s who. And if you are lucky enough to be in one of our brand spanking new tent cities, which by the way, we built just for you! the american taxpayer is forking out over $700 a night for each and every one of you ungrateful rug ratas.  And do you know who made all of this possible? The president of the united states of america. That’s right, the most powerful man in the world. You think he doesn’t have a few other things to do besides wasting his time dragging you brats from your parents’ arms and then sending them off to some other corner of this amazing country of ours. How about you just give that a little thought, huh? Not only are you costing us americans a fortune, you are wasting our busy busy president’s precious time. Time he could use at mar a lago working on his chip shot.

If things turn out like I think they will you’ll be lucky enough to spend the rest of your lives in this wonderful country, living like you are now, in the lap of luxury all on the country’s dime. Hope you appreciate that you goddam free loaders.

summit or sand trap?

Summit or abyss?-1

Holy mother of pearl… how in less than a day did the conald manage to piss off all of our closest allies, basically telling them to go fork themselves, because we are goddam america and we don’t need you pathetic needy pipsqueaks. Not in the trenches, not in the foxholes, not in the deserts of the middle east and especially not in any trading partnerships. The photo of merkel and macron leaning over the table giving our petulant president a what for really said it all. But honey badger, he don’t give a shit.

The conald ditched out early from the g-7 (or g-6 as it is now being called since he made it plain that poppa’s got a brand new bag o’ of totalitarian bitches to hang with) because he was itching to jet to singapore for an historic tete a tete with kimchee, the infamous two bit dictator who imprisons and kills his own people (and familial competitors) not to mention threatens the world with nuclear annihilation. Totally get it. Our own dear leader, the “dealmaker” in chief, who could in his own words tell within 60 seconds if this “summit” had been worth the time and effort, apparently had his signals jammed by the north koreans or the chinese or both because it took him almost ten minutes to fold like a cheap suitcase and get zippo from kimchee in return…talk about a singapore sling! No more military exercises with the south koreans, sure whatever, relax the sanctions, why not, and most importantly the possibility of a trump golf resort in what is currently a wasteland devoid of vegetation or anything else the starving north koreans could get their hands on, absolutely! Cheap real estate and an even cheaper experienced hard working labor force, straight from the gulags. Let’s make a deal!

After the meeting the conald and kimchee did the secret handshake and stood shoulder to shoulder smiling before an array of flags of both nations. The conald beaming because he thought he’d just nailed that nobel thing and kimchee smiling because he couldn’t believe how easy it was to buffalo this idiot. He had to be thinking, can you believe this guy’s standing next to me smiling like a miss universe contestant when I’ve just picked both his pockets, in front of the entire world? Hilarious! And btw you should have seen how he begged me to tell him the secret to getting all my people to idolize me and paint my face on everything when all he could get was a few lousy gold plated signs (that he had to pay for) in front of a couple of crummy buildings. And damn he was positively horny for my military parades.

Smile on kimchee you have absolutely earned the right to gloat. Our president’s misguided belief in his own invincibility won’t allow him to entertain the notion that he’s been played, that he didn’t win the game. That he is a loser. Wait, what? That’s impossible in trumpworld! Didn’t happen, could never happen. The conald may not have mastered the ability to get all americans to exhibit the blind idolatry of the people of north korea yet but he’s certainly learned one thing: the art of creating propaganda flicks that extol his absolute superiority, despite all evidence to the contrary. All you doubting thomases out there,  how about you get comfy in your barcaloungers and watch  his team’s cringe worthy cinematic celebration of his incredible summit victory and learn the real truth.

Cue the painters!


hamburger heaven

hamburger heaven

Well thanks to yet another tragic disappointment at the hands of big brother technology MJE has missed about 2000 news cycles since last week. So, this post is being updated to reflect the deviation in the earth’s rotation caused by the united states of america’s declaration of independence from the tectonic shift theory in order to become its own continent. Thanks for the memories, mexico and canada…we’re moving on uptown to north korea.

It seems as though the wedding’s back on! Guess we can put that nuclear shotgun back on the rack for the time being. But oh me oh my, the bromance between kimchee and the conald has had more offs and ons than the best little whorehouse in texas. For god’s sake, the conald even sucked up to the dimpled despot, asked him for the name of his stylist, complimented his generals’ yuge medals, and yuge hats, and confided that he thought kimchee’s sister was every bit as smoking hot as his daughter e-vanka. Kimchee however played it cool, after all the conald was doing exactly what he wanted him to do, why mess with success. Their courtship was important to each of them for wildly different reasons. Kimchee wanted worldwide validation of his tyrannical regime, his status elevated to that of the president of the united states, and most importantly a burger joint in pyongyang. The conald wanted a nobel prize, bigly. He wasn’t sure what that is exactly but fox and friends said he deserved one and he heard that obama had one so he should damn well get one too. Sadly michael cohen was unavailable just at at the moment, but man, back in the day he and his home equity line of credit could fix just about anything.

The conald, in a classic art of the deal opening gambit gave kimchee precisely what he craved, except for the burger joint, and he never had to lift one pudgy digit to get it. Seemingly unaware of his bone headed move, the conald crowed about his intention to meet with rocket man and get him that burger franchise suggesting that “my conald’s” might be a branding gold mine, helpfully offering a crapload of capital from some of his vc pals in moscow. He even dangled a kimchee apprentice type show as a sweetener but with more of a survivor theme, and if he gave up his nuclear arsenal well that would be okay too. The conald even picked a date and a venue although MJE thought it seemed a bit premature to order the boutonnieres and book the dj before he’d even been introduced to his intended. No wonder kimchee ‘s ardor waned, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Plus he’s pretty used to being the only fat bully calling the shots. Nobody puts this baby despot in a corner.

So as his opening parry kimchee did absolutely nothing. He simply had his guys blow off the initial planning meeting. told them to take a chill pill and curl up with some good pyongyang propaganda porn. Ha, ha how do you like that you arrogant orange bossy pants, you want it so bad, you’ll need to put up more than dinner and a movie. Of course, the conald never admits that he has ever been outfoxed so he made like he was the one who cancelled the meeting. Unfortunately kimchee’s snub had already been widely reported. No, no, no!!! fake news, fake news, deep state, uh corrupt lying main stream media! cried the conald. I dropped him before he dropped me, oh nuh unh no you didn’t, I dropped him first, oh yeah well…hey everybody…cat fight in the girl’s bathroom!!!

It was probably not helpful to have the vp and ss brownshirt lookalike spouting off that this deal would be like the one we did in lybia. Despite the fact that north korea is hermetically sealed, kimchee had probably heard that gadaffi agreed to give up his nukes only to get himself dragged out of a sewerage pipe, bayonetted in the bottom then shot to death. So despite the bootlicking it’s unclear where this may end up. The latest move was however a balm for the conald’s frayed ego, when north korea sent their next to worst person in that country to hand deliver a really big envelope puportedly from kimchee himself to get the negotiations back on track. Hmm, look who’s horney now? does make one wonder what they might be up to…so very eager. Maybe a relaxation of their sanctions, that dream of a burger joint empire, skimming money off e-vanka boutiques in pyongyang and a trump tower in the dmz? How about let’s get that deal done and we’ll move on to that boring nuke stuff later.

So the caterer is back on the docket, the flowers and music nailed down and trump tower singapore booked solid as we wait with bated breath for the next volley in this hair raising pying pyong game.



melanoma’s safe space

Do not enter

No woman that I can think of would ever welcome any sort of kidney infection, no way no how, unless you are melanoma that is. My guess is that she most likely considers her current condition to be nothing short of a gift from god. Ensconced in a luxurious private room in a hospital across town from the white house, presumably guarded like fort knox, she can instruct her medical team that she is not feeling well enough to receive any visitors, except barren of course. Envision the conald’s reaction to being denied entry to melanoma’s room, having reluctantly cut short his “executive time” watching fox and friends to visit his ailing wife as a demonstration of his belated fidelity. Upon arrival, photographer in tow, the implacable secret security detail on duty states that no one is to be admitted to the first lady’s room. At this the conald’s face contorts in fury and turns from its usual mesa sunset hue, to something closer to a vibrant vermilion as he stomps, screams and massages his temples taking care not to dislodge his carefully crafted coif. He bellows in frustration that he owns the goddamned place and thunders that he just might order mass castration, if he doesn’t need the eunuchs in congress to approve.  In response, the chief security officer calmly delivers the coup de grace and informs the president that mrs. trump has in fact issued firm instructions that he specifically be blocked from entering her room. What he did not disclose is that they were directed to discreetly usher in her manicurist, masseur and personal stylist the moment his motorcade is out of sight.

Six months later melanoma’s kidney infection has cleared but she remains hospitalized with an ongoing series of undiagnosable ailments which began to present themselves just hours before her scheduled release from the hospital. Initially it was a dull but extremely painful ache in her right funny bone, then an agonizing throbbing in both of her earlobes, followed by a bout of excruciating itching just to the left of her belly button. The duration of her continued hospitalization obviously required additional space for her staff and for barren’s overnights, eventually taking up an entire wing. Due to the vague but possibly contagious nature of her mysterious maladies, in the interest of national security, the president continued to be barred from her room. Her medical team finally consented to a single one hour visit per week during which he was restricted to standing in the hall and pushing 3″x5″ note cards with messages composed by callous ann conman under the door. However even these communications seemed to aggravate her symptoms and he was eventually informed that he would only be permitted to tweet her every other week. His tweets would of course be screened and any potential triggers redacted.

The doctors are baffled, but her team is united in their opinion that her conditions are chronic in nature and would in all likelihood recur periodically through 2020 and possibly 2024. They have determined that stress is the root cause of her afflictions and prescribed a long term stay in a wellness spa, perhaps in bavaria.

chewey, phooey, kaflooey and how

chewy phooey kaflooey and how

What is it with the conald and his attorneys, he hires them, goon shakes their hands for the cameras, and in a matter of months he just wants them to pick up their goddam clothes and hair products and get the hell out. Where is he finding these guys, tinder? He seems to vet his mouthpieces with the same care with which he vets his cabinet nominees. He probably overheard some yo yo bragging about how his great lawyer got him out of a speeding ticket and slam bam thank you mam, he’s the next rookie drafted by team tump. Just recently yet another one of his lawyers ran for the hills and was replaced with not one but two more. One is a new face on the scene, poor mr. flud who looks like he unwittingly wandered out of a brooks brothers catalogue. Not long for the rough and tumble of trump world, I suspect. But what ho! the conald’s also brought on chewliani the reptilian hunchback as his chief defensive tackle and attack dog.

Wouldn’t you love to be a dung beetle on the wall when meuller starts questioning the conald with that pit bull chewliani scowling and growling at his side, baring his prodigious gums in anticipation of the rumble ahead.

Looming across the table sits zen master mewler patiently waiting for the games to begin. He poses his first question:

“Mr. president who…”

Chewey cuts him off, snarling that his question is way outside of the authorized scope of his investigation and the president will not respond.

“Mr. president what…”

Chewey interrupts and growls that that question too is outside of the authorized scope of the investigation and the president will not respond.

“Mr. president where…”

Chewey hurriedly shambles to his feet, slams his fist on the table and bellows that he is fast losing his patience with this area of questioning and will not tolerate it, warning that he will remove his client from the room and discontinue any further queries if it continues.

“Mr. president when…”

At this, chewey’s cranium seems to detonate, forcing his thyroid eyes so far out of his cadaverous face that they push his trifocals off the end of his beak onto the conference table. His face turns the color of a bowl of borscht and he begins furiously sputtering in righteous indignation, his histrionics amplifying his speech impediment, reducing his frenetic rant to a series of spittle-laden squawks.

“Mr. presi….”

Finally chewey’s head literally begins to spin around. He collapses under the table, madly crab walks around the floor, and furiously scuttles out of the deposition room leaving the conald alone, directly across the table from the preternaturally placid mr. mewler. The unperturbed prosecutor quietly asks if the president would care to continue in the absence of his attorney.

The conald can feel the force within him grow, his ego and narcissism coalescing into a palpable sensation of incandescence. He is on fire. He is invincible. No one can get the best of him. He is smarter than anyone else. He always wins. He will wipe the filthy spit covered floor with this ridiculous bureaucratic hack just like he did with the losers who tried to get paid for the shoddy work they did on his condos and casino.

Like a gladiator in the arena, he can’t wait for the chute to open, the lions released and the battle joined. With absolute confidence in his infallibility, the conald crosses his arms, smirks and says, sure, why not. The hint of a smile crosses mr. mewler’s poker face as he begins the questions anew.

unlocked and unloaded

unlocked and unloaded

MJE just read the announcement that amazon prime members may now have orders delivered directly to their cars!

As I interpret it, you download an app onto your cell phone and when the delivery man is within 2 blocks of your car he opens “the trunk” and drops your stuff right in there. He then relocks your car. You get constant updates of course. What could possibly go wrong?

How about this scenario? My old heap doesn’t technically have a trunk and if you open its notatrunk the whole car unlocks. What if I should have, say left valuables in the area of the car that’s notatrunk and later return to my hoopdy to discover that, YES!!!! my bottle of 50,000 kirkland antacid tabs are there! However, my passport, the passwords to everything (in code of course I’m not that stupid) and the $1000 I keep in a ditch bag (should I need to hastily flee the country) that were hidden in my console are not. Just as I grab my phone to howl at amazon I notice 35 alerts from my bank, investment account, visa, american express, ebay and amazon warning me that it sure looks like I just had my identity stolen. All accounts have been drained dry and every credit card maxed out but they do hope I am enjoying myself in istanbul.

To whom do I address a complaint?  Well obviously to the fine customer support department at amazon, however it must be in the form of a chat session, which takes about an hour to exchange a handful of communications, half of which are introductions and greetings. But I am assured by the ether agent that my complaint will be thoroughly investigated and I will have a resolution within 2-3 business days. Good bye and bon voyage.

Ergo, for the convenience of speedy delivery of a gallon of antacid tablets (all of which I now need) I have gone to rack and ruin, all within a span of 120 minutes.

Could this possibly happen? If MJE is any example, amazon has clearly figured out algorithms that are able to stimulate the human brain and induce you to purchase things you don’t need and then to forget that you already have the things you didn’t need and buy them again. It is engineered to keep your mind in a state of unquenchable desire to possess everything. But the question at hand is has amazon figured out how to deprogram their delivery personnel and ensure that they stick to the trunk the whole trunk and nothing but the trunk.

charm offensive

charm offensive

I know MJE constantly whines about customer service agents, but this time I am giving kudos to not only whoever penned this beauty but also the poor souls who are required to answer incoming calls with this greeting…

Agent: How may I charm you today?

MJE: Huh?

Agent: How may I charm you today?

That briefly stalled my rant and I was actually speechless for a few seconds, which is rare. However I quickly snapped back into bitch mode and railed on about whatever gripe I happened to have that day.

After the call, I started to give that offer some further thought.  How might this young woman charm me today? …perhaps she could:

Clean my dog’s teeth.

Take my colonoscopy for me.

Find my sunglasses.

Explain what kombucha is.

Adopt my daughter albatross.

Crunch my abs.

Donate half of tom cotton’s neck to mitch mcconnell.

Make it 2020.


Charmed I’m sure.

medicare/rx sux

medicare:rx sux

I just received, via the failing us postal service, my most recent medicare/rx supplemental insurance statement which shows that my plan has paid precisely zero toward any of my prescriptions this year. Yet this coverage is, according to the incessant anxiety inducing advertisements, the only thing standing between me and the monstrous vortex of the dreaded “prescription donut hole” that will suck my bank account dry and leave me lying destitute and infirm on the side of the road clutching a tattered cardboard sign that reads “will work for plavix if I don’t stroke out first.”

So, I pay about $600 a year in premiums, with a $405 annual deductible…so just from the get go MJE is out a cool thousand bucks. As any typical overmedicated boomer, I ingest at least five prescription meds daily, as well as a few almost certainly useless nutritional supplements primarily to offset the results of ingrained unhealthy lifestyle choices, which I have no intention of changing.

So in order to try to sort out the vexing question of why am I spending money on supplemental insurance, which does not appear to supplement anything, I went in search of some answers, However, the federal government, which administers medicare has, in the interest of cutting government spending, deleted customer service entirely. This move, in addition to reducing governmental employee salaries and benefits, offers the added benefit of hastening the demise of legions of doddering lowlifes living off the government’s pharmaceutical tit. But my third party insurance provider, recommended by none other than the esteemed aarp, still employs customer service agents who do ultimately pick up the phone, but not before subjecting callers to a muzak loop obviously intended to force them to hang up and speed dial dr kevorkian instead.

However, MJE don’t scare that easy…I finally got connected to j joey who assured me most heartily that he could without a doubt answer any and all of my questions to my full and complete satisfaction. And true to his word he provided a lengthy and intricate explanation of exactly how each perceived expense had actually been a benefit that actively reduced my deductible, which currently stands at $35.97 thanks to my having spent $369.03 in cold hard cash.  I then got an unsolicited tutorial on the pricing tiers of various medications should the elusive deductible ever be realized: tier 1 for example would only cost $1 for a 30 day supply, tier 2 would cost $3 for a 30 day supply and so forth. As the tiers get higher the formulas revert to random percentage coverages, which are then sliced into tranches, bundled with other medication pricing structures and sold as derivatives on the big pharma futures markets.

So according to the gospel of joey, two of my meds are tier 1, (theoretically cheap), one med was tier 2 (less cheap theoretically) should I ever meet my deductible, which unfortunately lies somewhere between the end of the rainbow and my shallow grave. My three other widely prescribed medications are not covered at all. The good news is that the pharmacy I use is not a preferred vendor so my costs are much higher. Why is that good news…because in the through the looking glass reality of insuranceland the more expensive the drug the faster I will be able to claw my way to the top of mount deductible!

When I suggested that perhaps I should look for another rx supplement provider, joey patronizingly advised me to simply take different meds. Well, that was the pill that broke this camel’s back. MJE’s response was as follows, “You sound as though you are about 22 years old and since you’re working the graveyard shift (in whatever your time zone is) at an insurance company customer service desk I’m gonna guess that you haven’t been to either pharmacy or medical school. And furthermore you are most likely not suffering from high blood pressure, high cholesterol, anxiety, depression, arthritis, bursitis, fallen arches, bleeding gums, tingling in your hands and feet, dry skin, memory loss, or swollen ankles, just to name a few common afflictions of your client base. So please leave the prescribing to the professionals and stick to convincing your pathetic geriatric medicare dependent customers that they are not being taken to the cleaners by your employer, you little prick.”

To which he replied “Thank you ma’am for that excellent feedback which I will certainly pass on to my supervisor, and have a wonderful rest of your day.”


lunch meat madness

cold cut karma

What is it with old geezers who seem to think they, and the rest of us, have all the time in the world when they dodder over to the grocery store. And puhleeze, don’t get on your high horses about the dignity of our elders and how MJE should be respectful. First off, have these fossils looked in a mirror lately? The grim reaper doesn’t take a number at the deli counter my friends. We’ve all been at the mercy of geriatrics who stand in the lunch meat line clutching their paper numbers, peering into the case with an intensity usually reserved for members of the bomb disposal squad trying to figure out which wire to clip. Even after reaching the head of the line they remain maddeningly indecisive, weighing the relative merits of olive loaf vs hogs head cheese, liverwurst vs bologna, etc. At long last they cautiously settle on a preference. Then the weary hair netted clerk embarks upon the hunt for the buyer’s selection, rummaging half heartedly among logs of salami, hunks of ham and slabs of pastrami. However, more often than not, the selected item cannot be found and the clerk shuffles off into the meat locker for the remainder of his shift.

A new meat monger eventually appears on the scene and the entire process begins anew. Finally, we reach the point where a choice has been finalized, and we enter into phase two of the process. The all important taste test. I may be overly suspicious but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the pensioner’s first rodeo in the cold cut corral. And I will further surmise that he or she has a pretty good idea what that slice of compressed meat tastes like. Yet one can’t be too sure, so a tranche is gently laid upon a square of wax paper and offered to the potential buyer like the krupp diamond upon a velvet pillow. It gets a good once over, a sniff and then is masticated slowly and deliberately. Our senior gives the appearance of a master sommelier thoughtfully pinpointing the terroir of a fine vintage, assessing the bouquet and savoring fruit forward notes of cherry or kombucha followed by a clean mineral finish. The buyer hesitates, the throng in line behind him shuffles restlessly, hopeful for a swift and positive judgment; he hesitates, then offers a nod of approval. The crowd goes wild! No it doesn’t because by now all of the other geezers in line have had to dash off in search of the bathroom.

However there is one final hurdle: the intensely subjective preferred proportions of the slice. The deli meister carves a sliver and holds it up for approval. If it should get a thumbs up, then the full order of 1/16 of a pound will slide over the counter, however should it receive a thumbs down, off the scrap goes into the trash bin. And it often takes several attempts before the ideal slice is achieved, with each imperfect pass tossed onto the garbage heap.

For god’s sake america, half of ethiopia could subsist for weeks or even months on one grocery’s single day’s cast off bits of deli meat. But then those poor people would all develop hypertension and high cholesterol and drop dead of stroke or heart attack before they had a chance to starve to death.