While it all falls apart

McCOMB, MISS. (AP) – The Dinner Bell Restaurant consists of just four tables. Large and circular, they seat (up to) 15 people. In the center of each is a giant lazy Susan dotted with heaping platters of food, spinning back and forth as customers pile up their plates. The rotating tables provide a unique opportunity to meet new people, hear different perspectives and bond over a shared enjoyment of classic Southern food.

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Imagine my astonishment: a gigantic tabletop on roller balls, jam-packed with Southern-fried chicken, mac ‘n cheese, two kinds of soup, fried baloney, coleslaw and onions, fresh-baked rolls, pork ‘n beans, pigs-in-a-blanket, pickled eggs, corned beef and cabbage, carafes of tea and coffee, and a colossal heap of green salad, all of it bejeweled with scattered cut-glass containers of mustard, ketchup and tomato jelly. Yes, of course I thought it was all mine. Who wouldn’t? I was the only one sitting there.

Speechless (mostly because of an incessant flood of drool blocking the formation of understandable words), it took me a full 10 minutes to visually prioritize the pile of protein and carbs positioned just off my pectorals, and then formulate an expeditious plan of attack. But I managed. Then, settling on a life-long favorite, I reached for a casserole dish overflowing with baked, three-cheese macaroni … only to have it slowly, mysteriously, float away from me.

“What the hell?” I mumble-whispered. “Is this buffet haunted?” Reflexively checking my fingers to rule out the paranormal possibility that the pasta itself had been magnetically repulsed by my dirty hands, I looked up to discover that eight strangers – apparently all acquainted with each other – had suddenly, magically, materialized around the table.

“Try the pickled radishes, Helen,” one of them shouted.

“Oh, I know,” her friend replied enthusiastically. “They’re absolutely delicious. Here. Have some of these hash browns. I’ll push ‘em around to you.”

And my mac ‘n cheese got even farther away.

“Goodness!” insisted another frenetic foodie. “Try the corn salad. Wait!” she cried, briefly putting a brake on the turning table. “I need some of that sauerkraut!” Meats and vegetables and unnamed victuals by the pint were lifted by hand from the spinning shelf, the speed of rotation increased by the dwindling food mass as the target of my own comestible delight continued on its way to the other side of what was now a not-so-lazy Susan.

I pulled out my slide rule in a desperate attempt to calculate the amount of time it might take a rapidly diminishing quantity of food experiencing three G’s of centrifugal force to travel the approximate five feet of curved space remaining before the mac ‘n cheese was in front of me again, but the guy two chairs to my right was mowing through his meatloaf so fast that a piece of gristle flew into my eye and I missed my stop.

Faster and faster the mandala of munchables spun, accelerated by hungry locals armed with years of experience against my amateurish attempts to snag a bite or two as the food flew by. Damn! There goes the chicken. Wait. Here comes the spaghetti. Nope. Maybe next time. I realized I was out of my league when one professional managed to execute the entire plate-filling procedure with his eyes closed.

Now … now I was perturbed. I paid for that delicious mac ‘n cheese, and would no longer be denied. Pushing back my chair, I stood in resolute opposition to the flow of food, bracing myself for the inevitable impact. Here came the casserole, its delightful aroma wafting ahead, fueling my courage. Closer it came, chugging its way toward me like a carb-filled railcar. Three feet! Two feet! One foot! NOW!

Down came my hands like flesh-and-blood brake shoes, bringing the entire mealtime merry-go-round to a screeching halt. The world, it seemed, had come to a stop. No sound. No movement. No breathing. “I WILL,” I said calmly, pausing to look squarely at each food-filled face now riveted solely on me, “be having an unusually large helping of the baked macaroni and cheese.”

After taking a full minute to fill my plate, I quietly placed it on a nearby table, returned to the lazy Susan, announced that I would be more than pleased to help everyone with the rest of their serving chores, and then spun the table as hard as I could, causing the remaining delicacies to become airborne.

“Bon appetit,” I muttered.

NEW YORK POST – A staffer at Dusseldorf’s Kunstpalast art museum (Germany) puts on a twice-monthly “Grumpy Guide” tour in which the surly instructor deliberately insults and belittles his guests – to their utter amusement. (He) wags his finger in guests’ faces, admonishes them for being on their phones or taking a seat, and mocks their ignorance while going through the museum. (The) tours cost around $8 USD and they’ve reportedly sold out every session since they launched in May, with bookings well into 2026.

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(At an expensive restaurant)

RAMON:   Yeah? Something I can do for you? Who, me? Oh, my God, no. I’m not your waiter. You should be so lucky. No, you don’t understand, sweetheart. I haven’t had my second cigarette yet. Say what? You want me to check with the maître d’? What for? Well, all right … I suppose I could. Might be a couple of hours, though.

(Ramon returns)

OK, well, it seems that I AM your waiter after all. Man, I can’t catch a break around here. “Ramon, you’ve got table six! Ramon, you’ve got table seven … and eight, too!” Jesus, am I the only guy here with a pad and pencil? OK, anybody in the group a teetotaler? Good, ‘cuz the drinks around here are outrageously expensive, which translates into me bagging a tidier tip at the end of this yawn party. OK, who wants to go first?

A martini for the lady. (extended pause as Ramon slowly looks her over) Um, I don’t know. Are you sure? I mean, you look like you’ve had two already. You gonna be able to get your lips on that thing without sloshing it all over yourself? Yeah, right. You’ll take it slow. I’m guessing you take pretty much everything slow nowadays.

OK, how about the rest of you? Just a second, let me get this down – a Manhattan for the guy with that thing he thinks is a sexy moustache. You sure you don’t want to mull it over? Heh, heh. Get it. It’s a joke! Manhattan! Mull it! Jesus, you people are slow. All right, how about you two? Huh? You want a wine list? Come on, sport. You gotta be kidding. Look at you. Necktie from JCPenney. Sport coat from Target. No way you can afford anything from our wine cellar. Besides, I never learned how to use one of those stupid French corkscrews. Face it. You and your date are getting a couple of Budweisers. I’ll be right back … in a couple of hours.

(Ramon returns again)

Everyone ready to order? Good. Otherwise, you were gonna go hungry. All right, you first, madam. Prime rib! Whoa, whoa. I’m guessing your body mass index is like … a thousand! When was the last time your doctor ordered a blood panel? Listen, if I bring you a plate with that on it there’s a good chance I’ll be charged as an accessory to homicide. You’re getting a garden salad with mineral water.

And you, sir. How can I save your life? Oh. Well … normally I’d tell you the octopus was a good choice, but I had a preview of the prep work when I walked through the kitchen to the men’s room and I’d recommend against it. They’ve been tossing them around for fun out there and a bunch landed on the floor. Plus, a couple of them have nine tentacles, so I think something might be wrong. How about the sea scallops instead? They just came in three or four days ago, so they might still be fresh.

All right, now we’re cooking. At this rate we’ll be able to rebrand your dinners as late night snacks. Let’s move on to the lady with too much mascara. What are you looking at as your main course? Jesus, can you even see the menu? Hold on. Hold on. Where’s everyone going? Is there a fire in the kitchen or something?

Wait! Come back! It happens all the time! (chuckling and lighting up a cigarette) It’s how we keep your food warm …

FOX NEWS DIGITAL (as reported by the New York Post)– Many foods can impact the way someone smells. In very rare cases, the body converts a seafood byproduct into a fishy-smelling compound (that) … is released through the breath and skin. Cruciferous vegetables like broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower and brussels sprouts can cause body odor when they release sulfuric acid.

Cleveland Clinic notes that spices like curry and cumin contain volatile compounds that are absorbed by the bloodstream and released through the sweat glands, leading to a distinct odor. Red meat can release odorless proteins through perspiration, but after they mingle with skin bacteria their odor can intensify.

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As if the dating populace doesn’t have it bad enough already.

Looking for elaboration? I would be if I were you. Here it is: A recent article cites a supposedly real instance in which a woman found a way to extrapolate herself from a first dinner date after a mere 16 minutes because she didn’t like the way her companion chewed his food.

Great. So, in addition to guaranteeing that you don’t come off as a crude food chewer, now you have to worry about ordering stuff off the menu that may cause you to stink. Ordinarily at this point I’d elicit a lung-filling sigh of resignation, but I’m afraid if I did I might smell myself and not like it.

Makes you wonder what’s next, doesn’t it? Nuclear Old Spice,™ certified to camouflage every disgusting aroma that happens to bubble out of that sack of viscera called your body? Expensive lines of clothing impregnated with Febreze™ fabric freshener? Restaurant menus that, through the magic of AI, instantly analyze which foods on them are bound to react with your latest batch of sweat to produce a deadly cologne?  (Sigh)

Damn it, I said I wasn’t going to do that!

Well, there doesn’t seem to be any way around it, does there. I guess we just have to accept the eat-smell connection as an undeniable part of the natural evolution of the species and continue to munch. Or perhaps we could attempt to normalize things by, oh, I don’t know … retrofitting a popular song with satirical lyrics to make ourselves feel better.

Yeah. That’s what we have to do.

Cue the piano.

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Sung to the tune of “Unforgettable”

(with apologies to song writer Irving Gordon)

Odoriferous
That’s what you are
Odoriferous
Though near or far

Like a stench of love that clings to me
How the smell of you does things to me
Never before
Has someone been more

Odoriferous
In every way
And forever more
That’s how you’ll stay

Oh, my darling, it’s incredible
That a food we find so edible
Makes you stink so
Unforgettably bad

Odoriferous
In every way
And forever more
That’s how you’ll stay

Oh, my darling, it’s unthinkable
That some food makes you so stinkable
Please don’t make me
Odoriferous, too

If that’s not unforgettable, I don’t know what is.

Reader’s Digest, that éminence grise of American family magazines, reminds us in a recent article that no matter how much money you have, no matter how many times you’ve been re-elected and caught napping in your Congressional seat and no matter how often you’ve partied at Mar-a-Lago, there are a bunch of places on the planet where your presence is strictly verboten. A big NO TRESPASS. No can go. Don’t bother showing up.

And let’s be clear: It’s not because you have the wrong last name, wear cheap deodorant, or don’t wear any deodorant at all. It’s because you’re human, and along with eight billion other Earthlings share a reputation for committing occasional acts of stupidity that could get you in trouble if you set foot in those spots.

So, what do I mean by ‘reputation for occasional stupidity?’ Well, I suppose another way to describe it would be, oh, I don’t know … unintended brainlessness. OK, here’s an example. It takes a huge dose of mindlessness to confuse a tube of Preparation H^© for toothpaste, and yet we’ve all done it, right? I’m sorry, what? (pause) None of you? Wow. (deep breath) Well, as you might imagine, now I’m reluctant to bring up the Spam^© incident – except to say I should have known it would never fit in there. Let’s move on.

One locale cited by the magazine as a place where vulnerable humans are not allowed is Ilha da Queimada Grande in Brazil, also known as Snake Island. Apparently, it’s crawling with deadly golden lanceheads, a viper whose venom is so toxic it melts human flesh. Reason enough, I’d say, to prohibit its appearance in the local travel guide.

Fort Knox, America’s gold depot and the most heavily guarded spot on Earth (read guns), also earns a gigantic No Trespassing sign. The only way you’re allowed in is if you’re filming a James Bond movie.

We’re all banned, as well, from the Tomb of Qin Shi Huang, China’s first emperor. You’ve probably seen pictures of the 8,000 or so terracotta soldiers lined up in rows and columns in the emperor’s burial pit, placed there a couple of thousand years ago to supposedly protect the guy. You can probably guess why no visitors are allowed in. All it would take is a clumsy tourist with size 12 sneakers to stumble into one of those clay guardians and the whole damn regiment would fall like dominoes.

It’s an intriguing conglomeration of off-limit locales, yes, but even when you add in a couple of other spots mentioned in the article, the collection is woefully incomplete. I feel compelled, then, to advise the editors at Reader’s Digest that, in the interest of extended subscriber safety, several more sites urgently need to be added to their fascinating list of forbidden destinations, beginning with …

The Dark Place Beneath My Upstairs Bathroom Sink

I’m actually afraid to open the doors and look in there. It’s jammed with old brushes and bottles bearing paranormal names, and I swear I can hear things moving around when I’m brushing my teeth. Four plumbing companies have refused to do business with me unless I get a certificate from the CDC.

My Sister-in-law’s Backyard Shed

I’m told it’s perfectly safe to go in for tools and gardening paraphernalia, but if that’s true, why is it secured with 14 combination locks? And why do the double doors keep creaking and bulging every time I walk by?

40 Acres of Swamp Owned By A Friend Who Insists On Calling It ‘Protected Wetland’

The place generates its own foul weather system. I once went for an extended walk on the property and as soon as I hit the line of demarcation where ‘the wetlands’ began (everything beyond that point was dead), the temperature dropped and a thick, odiferous fog blocked out what was otherwise a brilliantly sunny day. I lost one of my shoes when it suddenly sank six inches into the muck and I had to burn the other one when I got back to the house.

Oh, and I’m beginning to think there’s one more place that may qualify as forbidden territory: this humor column.

I never see anybody here.

CNN – A new study that examines how kissing evolved suggests that ape ancestors and early humans probably locked lips with their friends and sexual partners … behavior (that) may date back 21 million  years. (The) lead author of the research, an evolutionary biologist at Oxford’s Department of Biology, said kissing presents an “evolutionary conundrum.” It appears to carry high risks, such as disease transmission, while offering no obvious reproductive or survival advantage.

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Wait a minute, wait a minute. You’re telling me you can’t get someone pregnant by kissing her? What the hell, mom! That’s the last time I take pre-date advice from YOU.

I’m kidding, of course. The old gal was always ready with a good wet one when you arrived for a visit. If you didn’t have to immediately reach for a towel when she was finished, you spent the rest of the day wondering if she really loved you.

But let’s get back to the slightly salacious stuff, shall we? To be clear, just about everyone remembers their first ‘romantic’ kiss, but absolutely nobody can tell when the very first contact between two sets of undeniably human lips occurred. I’m guessing that’s because 100,000 years ago homo sapiens weren’t that good-looking, and everyone just wanted to forget the bad choices they made after downing their fifth Budweiser.™

There’s some evidence, though, that humankind’s earliest kisses were formally recorded somewhere around 4,500 years ago in ancient Mesopotamia or Egypt – probably in the form of hieroglyphs carved into a tomb built to accommodate the original victim of mononucleosis. Sometimes it can be difficult, though, to get a handle on exactly what those stick figures are really doing. It’s possible, I suppose, that they aren’t actually kissing, but somehow got their braces locked together during a good meal.

If they WERE kissing, though, it’s likely that they took their example from early primates – you know, chimps and bonobos and orangutans – that pretty much never have been able to keep their lips off each other. Well, to be fair, for essentially their entire senior year Derek Deposito and Maryanne LaPone couldn’t, either. But that’s the subject of a separate study.

Returning to the primates, one evolutionary science journal estimates that great apes got into the practice of locking lips somewhere between 16 and 21 million years ago – hard to believe, since back then the closest thing to a toothbrush and mouthwash was a pine cone and a  muddy pool where everyone washed up after a hard day lounging in the trees. I mean, come on. I refuse to kiss my wife after she’s had two bites of an eggplant and garlic pizza.

And while the experts pretty much agree that pre-historic kissing existed, they haven’t been able to get their heads around exactly why it evolved. Was it a little trick to assess a potential mate, or was it just delightful foreplay? Did it help to relieve tribal tensions, or is it somehow connected to the fact that most animal moms chew the food they plan to feed their offspring before dropping it into their mouths? Boy. Think about the number of towels you’d need following THAT transaction.

Some researchers unassociated with the study are quick to point out, though, that most kisses delivered by human beings never land on a mouth. We’ll just mention the commonplace and generally acceptable cheeks and foreheads and golf trophies, and leave the more prurient possibilities to your imagination.

Oh, and one final tidbit: Kisses don’t show up everywhere in the chain of human evolution. One study (How do you get to be a part of one of those, by the way?) suggests that kissing as a common behavior is documented in only 46% of human cultures. The other 54% don’t even give it lip service.

I find that unspeakable.

All right, before we start, it’s only fair that we set some standards.

Yeah, I know. That’s going to upset quite a few of you. But, hey … I’m just being practical, OK? I mean, it’s pretty obvious that a whole lot of folks out there – mostly congressional representatives – aren’t familiar with the concept, but generally speaking it’s a necessity.

So here, right at the beginning, I’m laying down two embarrassingly minimal value judgments on which this little dissertation depends:

There are museums … and then there are you·see·ums.

Under the first classification fall such indisputable giants as, say, New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art or the city’s equally respected American Museum of Natural History. As for the second assemblage, into its bottomless depths spill a panoply of humble roadside attractions on which, in my usual collapse of good taste, I have chosen to focus instead.

I’m talking about places like the Museum of Bad Art in Massachusetts, a very real repository of kitsch where the term ‘brush stroke’ often refers to something the artist experienced while he was painting. Or the International Cryptozoology Museum in Maine, which takes visitors on a tour of mythical life forms such as Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and U.S. presidents with approval ratings higher than 39 percent.

And of course there is the famed Museum of Death in Louisiana, wherein tourists can have a rollicking good time rummaging through crime scene photos, letters from serial killers and lively funeral memorabilia … although that probably isn’t the right adjective to use.

The truth is, similarly folksy you·see·ums – from the world’s biggest ball of twine to back-country shacks where gravity supposedly doesn’t apply – are sprinkled like cupcake candy all across the American landscape. In fact, I’m guessing it’s pretty much a certainty that just about everybody has pulled off the highway at least once and coughed up five bucks to see a three-headed goat. If you haven’t and you’re interested, I’ve got one in my backyard.

The thing is, I think we could use more of them – wacky museums, not goats – if for nothing else than to distract ourselves more thoroughly from the daily insanity that gushes out of the U.S. capital and winds up dripping down our TV screens. So, in my usual helpful way, I’ve compiled a list of almost-museums I’d like to see. You know – just to give budding entrepreneurs something to think about. Let’s begin with the amazing …

American Museum of Booger Walls  •  As I recall, anyone interested in funding this sure-fire startup might be able to locate some vintage exhibits in the vacation sleeping quarters of my childhood friend Lester, who, out of supposed deference to his visiting guest, smirkingly granted me access to his more comfortable bed.

Moving thence to …

The Great American Gallery of Mannequin Hands  •  Lefties, righties, six-fingered mutants … all twisted into graceful poses evoking a range of easily interpretable emotions. Is she motioning to a lover to come closer, or is she reaching out in sublime supplication to a higher power? Or maybe she’s just asking for her paycheck. The story lines are limited only by your own imagination.

On to …

The International Collection of Broken Mobiles  •  Room after colorful room of mobiles that used to work. Dangling geometric shapes that refuse to respond even to hurricane-force winds. Starlings in silhouetted flight kept in perfect balance by socket wrenches hanging where Blue Birds used to be. Some displays even lying in artful piles on the floor. (Signed liability release forms required)

And finally …

The National Treasury of American Air  •  The nice thing about this one is, you don’t even have to pull off the road. Just roll down the window. A warning, though. Some of the exhibits actually stink.