Stream of Consciousness: Pie

I don’t have much to say about pie. Sometimes I like it; sometimes I don’t. I pour cream—yes, pure cream—on my pie. It’s really good. Pumpkin, apple, blueberry, whatever. Pie always tastes better covered in cream. However, my wife gets mad at me whenever I pour cream on my food. I think it’s because I can eat 500 calories of animal fat in one sitting and not worry about gaining a pound. But I ride my bike to and from school every day, so I get my exercise. Now, however, the weather has turned cold, so I don’t ride anymore. Maybe I should lay off the cream. But Thanksgiving and Christmas are around the corner. And what are the holidays without cream? In Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, someone gets killed, hacked, and baked into a pie and fed to another—I guess the person-turned-pie didn’t understand the nuances of di-transitive verbs. Never ask, “Can you make me a pie?” Because it just might happen. I watched a movie the other week—what was it called? oh, yeah, The Help—where a lady baked her poop into a pie and fed it to her boss. “Eat my shit,” she said. I wish I would have done that to my old manager at Lowe’s—he deserved to eat my crap dressed in crust and covered in cream. Brian, my buddy who unloaded the truck with me, and I used to fantasize about it. We had it all planned out: I’d produce the filling, Brian’s wife would bake the pie, and we’d give it to him on our last day. As a parting gift. “Thanks for being a great manager, Rick! Here’s something to show our appreciation.” It’s what kept us moving; unloading fifty-seven 300lb snow blowers, along with 9,243 other products, takes motivation.