- FEATURE: Voices of Choice
- THE FOODIE FILES: Spring in a Bowl
- GUEST OPINION: A Big Win for Wolverines
- THEM ON US
- THE BUZZ: Nest Contention
- MUSIC BOX: Double Dub and Keyed-up Piano
- IMBIBE: Dramatic Alto Adige
- CREATIVE PEAKS: In-house and Homemade
- GET OUT: Utah State of Mind
- WELL, THAT HAPPENED: The Swashbuckler
GALLOPING GRANDMA: The blobster
JACKSON HOLE, WYO – In case you are wondering, a blobster is one of those things that wash ashore on the beach and no one knows what it is. It is usually smelly, disgusting, squishy and unloved. It often appears to be a chunk of dead whale, the calamari leftovers of a giant squid, or something toxic that floated away from New Jersey (Snooki probably).
Scientists have classified it as Blobsteri ickii which translates as, “I don’t know what this is, but get it the hell out of here.” More about this later.
Many years ago, on a hot summer day, I waltzed down the aisle with a sweaty,
pimply youth. We had no money, no prospects, no brains and no clue about anything. That we are still together is probably due to a lack of ambition, besides, neither of us wanted to take the kids. In those days I was cute, had a waistline and teeth, and all my molecules were new and shiny.
The other day I looked in a mirror, something I usually avoid, and I saw a shapeless old lady covered with liver spots. I thought it might be my mother coming back from the dead to yell at me, but I was forced to admit that it was me. Where was my waistline, my teeth? I had been blobsterized.
There’s no way to know when this happens, but my molecules had been blobsterized and there was no going back.
I called my doctor, my lawyer and Oprah and they just laughed and hung up. Had I been hit by an errant blob ray from some rogue planet far away, or had I picked up some evil blobovirus? I had been in California, so who knows?
It is a sad fact of life that at some time all of us will be blobsterized and come to resemble something that washed up on the beach. People will point and say that we sure don’t look like we used to and in the immortal words of Rhett Butler, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”