For all things Tooks, and some things, er, relating to other people. As well as to other things. You get the picture.

22 January 2005

warning: this blog will not likely change your life.

or even your day. just wanted to let you know, so as to pre-emptively dash your hopes against the rock of cold, hard reality.


i've been suffering lately from severe food comas. everyone has experienced this phenomenon at one point or another (it's also known as post-thanksgiving dinner fatigue syndrome), but i've been feeling it after only routine meals, and to a very acute degree. the worst part is, it ambushes me halfway through the meal. one minute i'm shovelling down an enchilada or my fourth grilled cheese sandwich, happy as a gorging clam, and the next it's all i can do to avoid nose-diving into my dish for a noodle-nap. the feeling is so strong; i can almost feel the fluttery wings of chubby angels coaxing my leaden eyelids down, down, downward to the land of dessert-filled dreams. the strangest part is that it seems to be worst when i'm eating mexican food, especially in a restaurant.

granted, it could be that i'm eating too much, or that i'm over-tired to begin with, or that my circadian rhythms demand that my body go into a mini-hibernation just after lunch anyway. (and everyone knows that since i'm white, i have poor rhythm to begin with.) my personal theory, however, runs thus:

diabolical austinite tex-mex restauranteurs are secretly adding to their food that difficult-to- spell compound found naturally in turkey (triptophan? trichtofan? triftochan? kickthecan?) that has been identified as food-coma-inducing by noted food scientists. (these same scientists were the ones that proved conclusively the aphrodisiac properties of green m&m's.) these clever cocineros aim to hornswoggle me by serving smaller portions laced with liquid slumber, eyedroppering in the precise amount to make me awaken hungry for flan and tres leches and all other manner of meal-ending sweets. thus they get me coming and going--less for lunch and definite dessert.

the frustrating part is that this tripfo-whatever is odorless, colorless, tasteless and camouflaged by tiny, intelligent nanobots whose thousand, tiny mechanical legs allow them to scurry to and fro, hither and yon to hide the stuff from view (at least by the naked eye). also, these diabolical diner-operators might be aliens. until i catch the dastardly dastards in the act of adding their technologically-advanced additive to my noontime noshes, i'll just have to stay vigilant. in the meantime, if you need me at lunchtime, you may find me at joe's or las manitas, eating with one eye open.

get to the bottom of this bowl of tortilla soup with me,


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