Thursday, December 31, 2015

It Just Might Fall Under The Category Of Addiction

I think it has been established that you know the Hot Dog Man. Yes, you know the Hot Dog Man. Who lives in Hillmomba.

So what follows will come as no surprise to you.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been up to the ying-yang in errands this week. Depositing cash for the credit card payment, depositing the insurance check for our new metal roof, depositing the monthly savings for The Pony's college fund, mailing the #1 son's package back to him, mailing #1 his weekly letter and $6 for Chinese food, providing the insurance agent with the serial # of the new Acadia/the #1 son's updated transcript for the good student discount/The Pony's drivers license proof, picking up prescriptions, paying tax and getting license for the new Acadia, shopping at The Devil's Playground, and picking up a 44 oz Diet Coke every day.

You might imagine that by the time Mrs. HM sits down with her lunch at 3:00 p.m., she is in no mood to cook supper at 4:30.

Let the record show that she offered. Yes she did. She offered to make Farmer H some beanie weenies with Maple Bacon Beans and Li'l Smokies. She offered to make chicken wings. She offered to make Farmer H his choice of items out of Frig II's freezer. And let the record further show that Farmer H had at his fingertips the leftover ham, potato salad, 7-layer salad, rolls, and a cheese assortment from Christmas dinner. In addition, there was another of his favorites, bologna. And a brand-spankin'-new unopened package each of Oberle sausage, Oberle cheese, and Ritz crackers. And two different varieties of The Devil's Playground flatbread pizza, pepperoni and a southwest chicken, that only take 15 minutes to cook.

No. Farmer H made it a point to stalk down the basement steps, interrupting The Pony and Mrs. HM, who were engrossed in an episode of Survivor: Pearl Islands (the one with Rupert!) that The Pony received for Christmas. Stalked down those steps just to tell Mrs. HM: "Those hot dogs were moldy. I threw them off the porch for the dogs."

"Well, they HAVE been in the refrigerator for over six weeks. Opened. So you should have known they were not good. Did you find something to eat?"

"I had ham."

I really don't know why I bother to cook at all.


Sioux said...

Did he tell you that in case you go into the refrigerator looking for one of those six-week-old hot dogs?

What a considerate guy he is...

Hillbilly Mom said...

He is improving. In the past, he would have told me that the hot dogs were moldy, expecting ME to throw them out.

I don't think his purpose was so much to let me know in case I was jonesin' for a hot dog...but rather to get a compliment for taking the initiative to throw them away. Which was NOT forthcoming...

Kathy's Klothesline said...

At least he enough sense not to try to eat them ...... I hope.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Farmer H hates mold as much as he hates tiny baby blind hairless mice in the pockets of his BARn coveralls. As much as Lou Grant hates spunk. As much as The Pony hates the thought of helping people. He was in no danger of eating the hot dogs.