I have to admit that I’m usually a tad skeptical when it comes to my food delivery systems being tinkered with. And this LiquiGlide is no exception. For one thing, I’m uncomfortable with the name. It sounds like something you’d experiment with on a Saturday night . . . after the kids were asleep . . . you know.
Besides,I have bad mojo with stuff that is supposed to make my life easier. A few examples . . .
Juice Boxes: If I’m not mistaken, juice boxes made the scene in the early ’80s. A fact to which I was blissfully unaware until my kids made the scene in the mid ’90s. Every parent has a juice box story, and it’s only the convenience of the damned things that allows for these stories to be told without having to use the word Fuck several dozen times. Except for me, that is.
From the first time I tried poking that tiny straw through a foil pinprick the size of an anorexic atom , I’ve hated these things. How convenient is it if Daddy is sitting there for hours on end, stabbing at a five ounce box whilst introducing the kiddies to Sesame Street Uncensored? Answer: Not convenient at all once Mommy finds out.
And when you finally strike oil, it’s a whopping six ounce gusher of sugar with a pinch of juice added in. Half of which gets squeezed onto the rug, couch, car seat, computer keyboard, cat, dog, tax papers, etc.
I wouldn’t mind the squeeze bottle but for the fatal design flaw I discovered a few years ago when a dollop of mayo turned tsunami on me, resulting in a trip to the dry cleaners. After which I did some quick math . . .
On average, I was probably saving ten seconds by using the squeeze. So . . . adding in my trip to the dry cleaners, I would’ve had to outlive Noah in order to get back to even.
Once I received the dry cleaning bill, squeeze bottles were outlawed in my kitchen. Forever.
So MIT Kids, God bless you for trying to make my life easier. Not that you believe in God, since you can’t patent Him, but you get the idea. Thanks.
But no thanks.
I’m dealing just fine with all the condiments I’ve lost on account of they were too damned lazy to follow the light. So feel free to use those super-sized brains of yours on the gaping deficits of a world in need. Roam the grounds outside those boxes that will not cage your fiery genius, and I’m sure you’ll come up with something a little more useful than how to score the bottom of a bottle.
Either that, or it’s time for MIT to give Charlie Sheen his Honorary Doctorate.