Fussy eater

Last week, I stepped into a friend's home on the lower east end of the upper west side with unease coursing through me.  Prickly pears in my blood stickled and tickled every organ, vein, tubule, and tapeworm -- especially Leonard, the youngest and most sensitive of my tapeworms.  Finding little else to pacify myself, because conversation, interaction, and group high-fives would not soothe, I turned to the food.   

Tortilla chips in hand, I scooped bean dip in abundance, pushing the first chip to its payload capacity.  I eased the chip into my mouth with great care to preserve every ounce of spicy mushy bean spread.  The spread - dip dip dip - worked.  Satisfaction and ease sat where anxiety and resentment had so recently jigged the night away.  I worked this precious treat around in my mouth, savoring the flavor, and after getting my fill, swallowed the bean dip and spat out the chip.  The second chip followed the same course.  Dip, careful into the mouth, enjoyment, bliss, euphoria, swallow the dip, spit the chip.  And the third and fourth.  

By my twelfth chip, the party's host, a bean dip genius in my estimation, saw the soiled chips littering her living room floor and asked what I was doing.  Nothing out of the ordinary so far as I saw.  The host's voice raised, so I shouted back and dashed away, diving beneath the couch.  Much like my host, the couch did not approve and only allowed a portion of my head to enter its basement level.  I stood again, yelled at everyone in the room, and made another dash for safety into the bedroom.

Alone in a strange room, I began to smell everything within nose's reach.  Guests' coats, the bedspread, shoes, my own crotch.  Nothing to feed me here, no bean dip pantyhose, no tortilla chip flip flops.  I heard an intruder on my isolation and ducked beneath the bed, which proved to be far more compliant and, therefore, superior to that awful, awful couch.  The host had little trouble finding me, my legs protruding from beneath her bed and asked what I was doing and, furthermore, what was wrong with me.  Having no response, I emptied my bladder.  She was not pleased.

My friend's actions confused me greatly.  Why such dissension, disapproval, and rage at me?  All of this was so bloody cute when the dog did it.  It was little surprise then when she muzzled me, stuffed me into a burlap sack, and hurled me into the Hudson.  So bloody cute.