Justice Scalia...Through Time!

Milk Chocolate And Citrus

I hate the mix of milk chocolate and citrus. It is a woeful combination. My first taste of this elixir was when I was aged 7.

My parents were getting ready for work and I was preparing my breakfast. I normally had Rice Krispies with a couple of tablespoons of sugar. So I got a bowl out, poured some Krispies in, got the milk--poured that shit in. Then I was lost in my own thoughts--about Thundercats.

A little background: My parents are both workaholic doctors--without decorum. So one day when I was with my babysitter, I happened to catch an episode of Ricki Lake. So, I grew curious. What is sex and why is that dirty man claiming that he and his rotund girlfriend are going to have sex in the bathroom? So I asked my parents. They were stumped by the latter inquiry, but they gave me a more than thorough description of the former question. Remember, I'm 7.

I began applying this newfound knowledge to everything I knew. Enter Thundercats. So I was wondering whether Lion-O had sex with Cheetara. I assumed for the sake of further inquiry that they were. But when they did, did they prefer cat position?

While I was wondering this, I got the orange juice and poured it into my cereal bowl. So milk, cereal, and oj.

I figured I had to eat this shit. My dad had told me about all the poor Ethiopian children. I was still at the age where I cared about the plight of Ethiopian children. So I started eating it. It was the worst--milk and citrus don't go together. It was the cottage cheese, curdled, sour nonsense.

So some of you might be thinking--that's milk and oj. That ain't milk chocolate and oj. Well morons, I don't think much would change if I dumped cocoa powder all over that shit. It would still be shit. And yeah, I'm right. I had one of those Toblerone chocolate oranges. It was terrible. Terrible. In fact, my ex-girlfriend handed that to me on the train and I puked all over the place. That was the same day I went down on her while she was having her period. The chocorange was the worst thing I had that day.

So, in summation, if you like milk chocolate and citrus, I suspect that you are a child of incest.

Kids Lie...Except When They're Telling the Truth

When I was a little girl, every time my birthday rolled around, there were only three things that I ever wanted: a dog, one of those silver, jingly medical bracelets*, and a Ring Pop. My expectations were tempered in early childhood, so mostly, I just wanted the Ring Pop—you know, that huge, pre-diabetic sugar rock stuck to two prongs of plastic intended to fit on one’s finger (there had to be an opening in the band, since the kids who received Ring Pops presumably had chubby phalanges, i.e., “hot dog fingers”).

In old home videos, whenever I opened a birthday present—no matter the size of the package—I would squeal in delight and declare that it was a Ring Pop. Come on, folks, I knew; I was no dummy. In elementary school, kids used to tell me to speak English because they couldn’t understand my advanced vocabulary. I knew the comparatively oversized boxes did not contain a Ring Pop. It was a manipulative, desperate act to obtain my candy bling. It didn’t work, though, as I never did receive one.

Fortunately, I was more successful when it came to the dog. After ten years of enthusiastically telling my mother that I would eat the dog crap if I did not remember to pick up after it, she finally relented. It was a total lie—the likelihood of my consumption of canine excrement was akin to the chance a man is telling the truth when he denies having ever masturbated (yes, I have met men like this; for your own sake, please, do not date them). In actuality, she bought me the puppy as a last ditch effort to lift me out of an emo, teenage funk partially precipitated by the breakup of my first not-worth-it relationship. But, I knew the influence of my words couldn’t be underestimated, as she still reminds me in nag sessions of my promise when I reluctantly pick up after him.

So, with all this seemingly-innocent deceitfulness going on, how do you know when children are being honest? If they state they broke the ant farm in the kitchen, contradict daddy when you ask, “Do I look fat in this dress?,” or inquire if you’re a boy or a girl, you can rest assured that your little darling is telling the truth.

*I found out years later my mother was adamantly against medical bracelets because “pedophiles could use the personal information and address” and, well, I was adorable.

People Are Still Eating Mini Muffins

I walked into class yesterday and the guy who sits next to me was eating mini muffins. Mini muffins.

I didn’t know mini muffins were still around. I thought we had left them behind with Fruit by the Foot and Gushers and brown paper bag lunches. Since elementary school, they’ve made occasional appearances at hotels’ continental breakfasts, usually paired with the meal-in-itself Jumbo muffin. I’ve also seen evidence of them in my mom’s mini muffin tins she keeps buried in the archeological drawer of disregarded things, with the Styrofoam tortilla holder and tulip shaped cookie cutters. I thought they had only been a fad.

His mini muffins were clustered together in a little package like fruit snacks and he would pop a whole one in his mouth with grape-like ease. I didn’t hide my bewilderment. Are those mini muffins?! He was excited to tell me that he had been craving mini muffins when his roommate called him from the store. “He asked me if we needed anything. Did we need anything? Toilet paper? Toothpaste? Milk? I don’t know. I didn’t check. I just wanted the muffins.”

What is it about mini muffins that is so appealing? I asked him. He held a mini muffin up to his eye level and went into detail about their high level of moisture, their crumb-less-ness, their sweet and glaze-y top and edges, their total surface area, and he said that every once in a while, he would even get a blueberry.