I submitted an essay by that title to a "humour" magazine, I believe it was called the "Harpoon." It was a Canadian version of the National Lampoon.
We're talking thirty or forty years ago, at least.
The Harpoon didn't last very long. By the time my comedic literary effort crossed their front desk, that desk was in the possession of The Harpoon's receiver in bankruptcy.
I don't really remember much about that essay, other than the fact that the gal I'd roped into typing it up for me mentioned that she'd gagged multiple times whilst doing the typing.
Her name was Rosie.
I recall I was somewhat infatuated with her at the time, and I still have the tattoo to prove it.
That's a messed up thing, isn't it? You take a fancy to a gal and you get their name tattooed across your chest...
It shouldn't have come as a surprise that she found me a little "intense."
No shit!
It wasn't long after Cooking with Snot that I bought myself an old Royal typewriter. I covered every key with masking tape and forced myself to learn how to touch type. Been doing my own typing ever since... or "keyboarding," as it is now known.
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