Turdbar

I used to like airplane food, back when they gave you some. I know that's weird, but I'm not a foodie. I don't eat sushi or Chinese food or anything that's raw or filled with MSG or comes on fancy plates. I'll take mine fried, thanks, with a beer, if possible. So a plastic wrap-covered tray of chicken n' green beans was just fine with me.



Now, however, you get something called a "Bistro Meal" in a little paper pouch. The pouch contains: a turkey sandwich, a packet of mustard-mayo, a bag of chips, a teeny baggie of baby carrots and a lump of brownie, covered in walnut crumbles and resembling, in many ways, a turd.



"You want my turdbar?" I said to my mother, holding out the brownie thing.



She examined it for a moment, and then took it and dropped it in her bag. "Oh, boy, turdbar! My favorite!" She made a yum-yum noise and rubbed her tummy. "I love a good turdbar. Turdy, turdy goodness."



I started feeling around for my seat belt. "Where's my seat belt?" I asked my Mom.



"I took it."



"First you took my turdbar, and now you took my seat belt."



"It's also a hundred degrees in here," My Mom said. "So I'm glad you've got your jacket on."



"I think I need a little knit hat, like a sick person in the movies."



"I'm going to take my clothes off," My Mom said. "Do you think anyone would mind?" She pointed to my notebook. "Make sure you write that down."



"I'm glad you find this all so amusing, because this journal will have great legal significance at your committment hearing."



A stewardess walked by, holding up a Bistro Meal in each hand. "Bistro Meal? Anyone need one?"



I raised my hand. Off Mom's dirty look: "What? I'm hoarding them, in case of disaster."



"Oh, good. I'm sure those will come in handy on the desert island."



"I'll have enough turdbars to feed us all!"