Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that is beginning to develop an “unmanly” complex. You see, somehow we have been added to an e-mail database, that, on average, sends us about one e-mail a second with the subject slugged: “Her last lover was bigger than youS”
Being the ultra-sensitive lovers we are at Summit Up Central, we look downward toward our laps and say, “Oh my!”
Another e-mail arrives telling us: “67 percent of all women say they’re unhappy with their lovers’ package.”
“Oh my!” we cry again, folding our hands over our loins.
Finally. Desperately. Whatever can we do?
Ta-da, a bugle sounds. Here’s the answer, we read in yet another e-mail:
“Be in control of your sexual destiny. Click below for complete details.”
“No.1 Doctor recommended penis enlargement formula.”
“A special free offer for max girth. Watch with amazement as your penis grows into the biggest, thickest, hardest tool imaginable.”
Sign us up, we say. No more tool box. No more hammer in the kitchen drawer.
Moving right along to the pescine in us. Every now and then, we get a downright hankering for a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish. Call us crazy, but it’s kind of a nostalgic thing with us. Back when we were still tender behind the ears, Filet-O-Fish was about the only fish product we consumed outside of canned tuna. Mind you, we grew up in Colorado, and when we were knee-high to a bug, we simply couldn’t go to the market and buy orange roughy or Chilean sea bass. We delighted in trout fishing back then and relished the tender white meat that fell off the bones – usually wrapped in tin foil with heaps of butter and loads of onions and cooked in the coals of a campfire. But we didn’t fish as often as we liked, so Filet-O-Fish was our connection to the oceanic world. So, the other day we found ourselves with that familiar culinary craving for a Filet-O-Fish and hustled right over to the McDonald’s in Wal-Mart.
“Where’s the Filet-O-Fish?” we asked, a little drool gathering in the corner of our mouth.
“We don’t have room for it in this store,” said the fellow behind the counter. “I have got it in my other store.”
“What do mean?” we asked. “You don’t have room to store the frozen filets?”
“No,” he informed us. “Cooking fish filets requires its own frier and we just don’t have the room in this store.”
“We’ll have a Big Mac,” we said, not wanting to drive down to Silverthorne to fill our culinary craving.
“Excellent choice,” he said. “Sandwich only or the meal?”
“Just the sandwich,” we said, wishing he would be handing over the familiar blue wrapper instead – a mouthful of tartar sauce dripping out from under the bun.
Moral of the story: Go to Silverthorne if you are craving a Filet-O-Fish. We might already be standing in line.
If you have any crazy cravings, drop us a line at firstname.lastname@example.org and tell us what fills your culinary appetite. We be out fishin’ S
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