Daily Ramblings for One

Yeah, yeah, I know. I was supposed to do the other Dominique Moceanu column today, but something came up in the newspaper world, and I, Captain Dumpshit, had to cover it. I call myself Captain Dumpshit because every time something happens and someone else is too lazy to cover it, they "dump the shit" on me. Welcome to the life of a cub reporter.

But I have something else to talk about. I went to Walgreens today to fill a prescription (Before you make some sort of horrible herpes joke, I'd like to point out that I'm diabetic), and I was trying to find something for lunch tomorrow. Why? Because I have jelly and bread, but no peanut butter. I have hot dogs but no ketchup or mustard. I have water but no ramen noodles.

I'm not sure who the hell doesn't have peanut butter in their house, but I'll bet they were working the reporter beat all weekend. Either way, I was looking at the frozen food section at Walgreens, which for some reason consists of 94% ice cream, and I happened to see something called "Tombstone for One".

Now, I can't think of anything more depressing than a product called "Tombstone for One". It's depressing for a variety of reasons. First, it's depressing because you're paying out the ass for a frozen slice of pizza. But it's all Walgreens has, because all their managers and workers are stupid. Would they be wearing those little smocks if they weren't stupid? I rest my case.

Second, one box of "Tombstone for One" isn't enough to fill up anyone, so you end up buying two just for a single meal, which makes you feel like a loser. Not only are you buying "Tombstone for One", like the people on those herpes commercials probably do, but you're buying two of them and eating them all at once. Tombstone must have some sick bastards working in their marketing department.

Third, it's called "Tombstone for One", so you're not only eating by your lonesome self, but you're doing it while some bastard pizza box reminds you of the fact. Actually, two boxes are reminding you of it, as I mentioned in the last paragraph. And you can't do anything but stare at the boxes, because your apartment doesn't have cable, and you'd rather stare at "Tombstone for One" boxes than surf through four television channels trying to find something that doesn't make you feel like a deuschbag for watching it.

I can't think of anything more depressing than that. Actually, scratch that. I can think of something more depressing: the fat bastard who has to buy three boxes to eat in one meal, instead of two. Not only are they being reminded that they're eating by themselves, they're being reminded that they're eating a sh*tload by themselves.

Anyone who has that much trouble with overeating should find away to avoid it. If I were them, I'd drink a big glass of Nyquil with my "Tombstone for One", so I'd pass out before I could start eating the third one. Sure, I might wake up surrounded by dead hookers, like I usually do when I'm recovering from a Nyquil binge, but at least I wouldn't be depressed by pizza boxes anymore.

"Help, I'm eating by myself, and the pizza box is mocking me." That's probably what those fat three-box bastards say. Unless they're so fat that they accidentally eat the boxes. I've seen such things happen before, mainly at the Wisconsin State Fair. Except at the Wisconsin State Fair, it doesn't happen with pizza boxes, it happens with live animals in the petting zoo.

But that's all for me today. I promise I'll have perverted Dominique Moceanu drawings tomorrow. That is, unless I find a place that will sell me a full case of Nyquil without a prescription. And if I do, you won't be seeing another column from me until November.