Tag Archives: bouncer

Chomp

Chomp: (v) to munch or chew vigorously

Sometimes I think my body is working really hard to kill me–but other times I feel a sympathetic pang streaming from my consciousness,
wishing me well. I don’t know if either is true or if one is actually more prevalent than the other.

But as I get older, I don’t “chomp” as much. It’s been years since I’ve used the phrase “chow down.”

Especially over the past week, recovering from a stomach virus, I realize that my internal organs have very little interest in food. It is my brain that is completely obsessed by the notion.

So when sickness comes along and makes the brain calm down, the stomach has the opportunity to be very picky about what comes through the door. Over the past couple of days, I feel like there’s a bouncer stationed at the end of my “food tube,” kicking out the riff-raff.

First and foremost, I find myself chewing slower, giving my belly the chance to adjust to the idea that soon there will be a visitor.

Now, I do realize that within a few days I will be completely well and the brain will once again insist on more chomping. But for this moment, it is very intriguing, and also cuts the calories.

Could I ever learn to not be a chomper? A fascinating question.

Perhaps I could learn to eat like a kid. They take a bite or two, leave the table and run, and come back and take another bite or two. Not much chomping there.

So I guess the best thing I can say is, I’m kind of chomping at the bit to find out if I can chomp a little less at the table.

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Bouncer

Bouncer: (n) a person employed by a nightclub or similar establishment to prevent troublemakers from entering

Big Mike.Dictionary B

That really was his name.

I know it sounds kind of silly, but if you’re going to be a bouncer in a club, your tag should have a certain amount of intimidation. In other words, if the owner was dealing with a problem, asking “Lawrence” to come and help would not be nearly as frightening.

I got to know Big Mike a little bit. He was a nice guy. I suppose he might even fall into the category of “sensitive.”

But whenever the proprietor of the institution called his name, Mike suddenly turned into an attack dog. It was almost like watching the transformation of the Incredible Hulk (except he never tore his shirt.) His face became stern, furrowing his eyebrows. He lost all the joy in his eyes as he rapped his knuckles on the table and stomped off to deal with some ne’er-do-well.

At first I found it funny. Then I realized Mike was playing a dangerous game.

Because the truth is, a prize fighter can’t go into a bar without all the drunken patrons thinking they can take him on. And Big Mike was going to eventually run across someone who felt it was his duty to clean his clock–leaving him unable to tell time.

It gave me pause.

How often am I tempted to muster a nasty disposition to warn people of my superiority and prowess, setting myself up to be brought down by the thunder of a greater storm?

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