Case Study In Why Men Are Doomed And Dogs Are Confused

Recently I fell prey to a plot which I claim to be entrapment.

I’d put some flour and other random ingredients in my battery of breadmakers.  (I’ve got only two machines running now but ideally I’d have a dozen.  I’m not so much interested in cooking as I am in manufacturing food.)  I make many loaves in advance and store them in the freezer.  It’s a handy complement to deer hunting and other manly freezer filling pursuits.

I set the machines on “magic” (for there is nothing quite so magic as an automatic breadmaker) and went to bed.  Three hours later the bread machines were done and they beeped.  This set off our nocturnal intruder alarm (the yard wookie).  The subtle difference between a bread machine beep and the zombie apocalypse eludes her.  Nobody heard the dog but me (thus proving that a nuclear bomb could go off and most of the household would sleep through it).  I guessed it was a false positive dog alert but I lumbered around the house scanning the perimeter for zombies and other creatures likely to invade the house or molest the chickens.  Nothing.  Good dog.

Once the bread was on cooling racks I realized I was hungry.  I’m a man.  Men are always hungry.  The only time they’re not hungry is when they’re thinking about beer or sex.  (In those moments they’re still hungry but distracted.)

But the bread was part of my “fill the freezer plan” and we had some store bought bread (hereafter referred to as abhorrent compressed sawdust loaf) which should be eaten first.  Besides I wasn’t in the mood for bread; either my golden creation or the abhorrent compressed sawdust.  So I opened the fridge to find a snack.

The fridge was as empty as a politician’s promise; mustard, pickles, one can of Coke, maple syrup, some carrots that look dangerously old, butter…  what’s this?  In the far back I found a little cup of apple sauce.  The perfect thing for a 2:00am snack!

I wolfed down the apple sauce, told the dog to limit barking to things I could legally shoot, and went back to bed.  Story over…


Several hours later morning came.  I was just barely capable of focusing my eyes when one of the smaller household units (larger than a poodle and smaller than the dog…yet capable of using tools, possessing speech, and literate) zoomed into the room to accuse me of something.  I couldn’t quite understand the complaint.  Yeah, I ate some apple sauce, so what?  “Ah ha!” the accusing voice exclaimed, “I knew you did it!”.  Then it scampered out to notify my wife.

Five minutes later she who must be obeyed showed up with the air of the Spanish Inquisition.  More accusations; “Did you or did you not eat the applesauce?”

Folks I’m a man.  We don’t get hints.  We actually answer questions.  Truthfully.

“Yes, I ate the applesauce.  So what?”

“That was the last applesauce.”

Apparently the applesauce wasn’t for me.  Of course!  How silly of me!  I should have noticed the pheromone marking placed on it.  The error of my ways should have been self-evident.

My dander was now up.  I’m not even sure what a “dander” is but I think the world should learn to treat me kindly before I’ve had my coffee.  In fact it’s better to wait for the second cup lest I start running around on all fours like a rabid badger and bite your kneecaps off.  Even I don’t know what I might do before the blessed civilizing embrace of coffee kicks in.  I spoke:

“Yes, I ate the one and only last applesauce in known creation.  As Al Gore has pointed out apples will be wiped out by global warming.  We’ll all have to eat soilent green.  In spite of that I acted like the hopeless Neanderthal that I am; I ate the applesauce.  A foodstuff that I found in my fridge, in my kitchen, my house.

Now we’re all going to die.  Because I’m a greedy pig who eats everything in sight.  The two new loaves of bread, borne from the sweat of my brow and God’s divine providence of the wheat harvest, are irrelevant.  Because I have consumed all materials that could sustain life as we know it.

The loss of applesauce will plunge us into Dickensian misery and domestic starvation.  Our demise is upon my shoulders.

Do I deny this?  No.  For I have no regrets!  I did it willfully.  If I had the chance I’d do it again!  Applesauce is my addiction.  Applesauce is crack.  Applesauce goes to eleven.  Applesauce has more cowbell.

I’ll never let them take my applesauce without a fight.  You’ll have to pry the applesauce from my cold dead hands.    Rage rage at the dying of the applesauce…”

That didn’t go over as badly as you might imagine.  She who must be obeyed and small talkative creature chalked it up to senility and my predictable pre-coffee attitude of evil and mayhem.  I think the family unit will overcome the applesauce drought of 2011.

Everyone left but me and the dog.  The dog had loyally stood by side all morning.  Dogs rock!  Sadly, she was terribly confused.  She is willing to defend me against a charging infantry division but she didn’t quite understand the import of applesauce.  I don’t either.  She looked at me hopefully.  As if to say “Is there something I can bark at?  Maybe terrorize the UPS guy?  Would that help?”

Nope.  I was doomed the minute I took for granted free access to the fridge.  (I wonder who owns the mustard?)

I made coffee and fed the dog.  On a whim I made toast out of my fresh good bread. (This bread is mine and by God I’m eating it!)  It was delicious.

That’s how I started my day.  The dog is still confused.  So am I.  Men usually are.

But the toast was excellent.

About Adaptive Curmudgeon

I will neither confirm nor deny that I actually exist.
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8 Responses to Case Study In Why Men Are Doomed And Dogs Are Confused

  1. ZerCool says:

    …and don’t touch my damn applesauce.

    Thanks for the (much-needed) morning laugh.

  2. Bill in Austin says:

    Well, now I know I’m going to have to cancel my plans to blog. How could I write to your standard? Oh well, back to finishing the bunker.

  3. john says:

    I now stash all favorite foods in a corner of my bedroom, within hands-reach, next to my firearms.
    I now put-up with a steady parade of dogs & off-spring eye-balling said corner [easily defensible with only one small trail in/out] for future attempts at coup…………..

  4. Secesh says:

    Great post. I’m glad I wasn’t having my morning cup of joe when I read it, I’d need a new keyboard.

  5. jefferson101 says:


    Just, whatever you do, don’t find any containers with just enough lunch-meat for about two sandwiches in there on a Friday night. That will be the Sacred Lunch Meat, being saved for something or other on Monday.

    It matters not that you can get more over the weekend. What matters is that you are a selfish pig and never thought that someone else in the house was saving that for themselves, on some nebulous future date, by when it may have dried up and molded, or not. (Packaged Lunch Meat has almost the same shelf life as Twinkies, don’t you know?)

    You selfish bastich!


  6. MSgt B says:


    I LOL’d

  7. jefferson101 says:

    The whole thing reminded me of an RAH quote from Glory Road.

    ““Women and Cats do as they please, and men and dogs might as well relax to it.”

  8. jefferson101 says:

    And, on further reflection, your story also reminds of me, my dear Wife, and the Spider.

    The Lady of the House has this sincere dislike of spiders. She’s like the women in the old Cartoons with the Mouse. She’s standing on a chair screaming “Kill it!”

    I’m pretty good at that. I’m not notably phobic about them, and will pick up whatever blunt instrument is available and whack the offending, critter, usually. Occasionally, I just remark that it’s too cute to kill, pick it up, and toss it out the door, but that’s just because she totally freaks when I pick one up.

    At any rate, back in about 2002 or so, we were having a run of the large Wolf Spiders coming into the house regularly. One Saturday afternoon, late, I was sitting on the floor in the living room cleaning firearms from that day’s excursion to the shooting range.

    My Lady started screaming. “Spider! Spider!!” I looked out that direction, and see a fairly large Wolf Spider wandering across the kitchen floor. Hey. I couldn’t help myself.

    I grabbed the nearest M44 (there were two at hand, right then) flipped the bayonet out, leaped up, and yelled “Urrahhh!” and charged.

    The woman tried to clothes-line me on the way by! “Don’t stab my floor!”

    Hey. I wasn’t going to stab the thing. I figured on butt-stroking it, actually. The bayonet and the yell were just for effect. I paid for that flipping floor, and if anyone sticks holes in it, they best hope I don’t have an M44 in hand when they do. But sheesh!

    Since then, I’ve been a bit less concerned about the whole “Spider Panic” thing. She surely gets over it quick enough some days, anyway.

    You got to let them show you just how much of their concern is real, actually.

    So it goes.

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