Last week I judged a Burger Competition.

Last week I judged a Burger Competition. My least favorite was a new burger made from cow stem cells. It really lacked the satisfaction I get from knowing an animal was slaughtered

& hung for dead, I normally like things that are well hung. Hubbahubba, but this stemcell cow thing tasted like rubber, I normally like the taste of rubbers. The winning burger had

a salty but somewhat creamy sweet taste. I felt like it slide down my throat with so little effort that it kinda shocked me. Yes, this stemcell cow burger filled my desire for

beef, but it left me wondering if it would keep me satisfied long enough to find the real thing. My whole life I was told that simulating the act could be satisfying, but I was

now wondering why Grandfather had been so insistent on that point. Could it be that, denied any real, sensual gratification himself since1954, he'd decided to take revenge on me

. The smell of moth balls and prune juice gags me. It's grandfather PTSD. If only I hadn't been forced to work on his farm in Iowa every summer, I might not be so f'ed up now.

Grandpa was boring to the point that made watching water evaporate thrilling. He'd been the chief vice-measurer of all the baseboards in the post offices in the Midwest. He'd

prattled long enough. In walked sassy interior decorateur Niecy Nash. She grabbed grandpa by his mustache and said, "Spice up those baseboards with high-gloss ruby enamel, or else

the room will be unbalanced and your 'feature wall' of massive flowers will overwhelm the senses leading to mental collapse." So grandpa painted them white.