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<h2>Feeding the Hungry Hordes</h2>by Figster<div class="entry page"> 
<div class="entry page"> 
I am a kind, giving person. The spirit of charity oozes through my very pores. If my charitable spirit were any oozier, I'd need a mop. 
I hope you believe me, because I'm an honest person, too. Honesty runs through my veins, srints to my vital organs, and then jogs back to my heart. My kind of honesty is plaque deserving. 
I'm telling you these things because I have an incredible tale to tell. I have suffered terrible injuries, the second hair on my left eyelash is still in a cast ..all, because I went on a charitable mission of mercy. 
Me and mercy missions just don't mix. 
Here is my sad, sad saga: 
Last month, I was sitting at home watching the last three minutes of the news. I limit myself to only three news minutes a day, because of my kind, empathetic nature. If I listened to any more news, I'd be crying over all those tales of woe. 
Now, don't start thinking I'm a dummy because I'm a news limiter. I do like to learn. There's a lot of information in those infomercials. 
Anyway, .I'm sitting there listening to the news, when an anguished young reporter starts talking about the hungry hordes over there in Atlanta. I live in Georgia, so I figure that I had nothing better to do that week-end, except get married, so I should go on over to Atlanta to help feed those poor, hungry people. 
I went to the store, got a bunch of groceries, and came home to prepare them. Let me tell you folks I busted my butt and my budget at Bilos. Remember, when I said I am charitable? Well, I'm not balony and bean charitable. Uh-huh not me. I was going to give those folks a veritable feast. 
Things got ugly before I even left for Atlanta. 
See, the plan was that my sweetheart, Jim would drive me because I hate long distance driving. Well, while I was getting out my rolling papers to smoke the salmon, he started complaining. 
Jim: "I'm glad that you have such a charitable heart, my darling, gorgeous, Edie, but where's dinner?" 
Me: "Sweetheart, it's hard to listen to you, while I'm trying to fit this stupid fish inside this tiny rolling paper. Whatever you're looking for, I'm sure it's lying around here somewhere. Have you checked your pants pocket?" 
Jim: "My darling sexy Edie, I am asking you about my dinner. And, please, stop licking that paper. That is NOT the way to smoke salmon, 
 You need a pipe." 
Me: (Cough, cough, cough, gasp, wheeee-ze) "God, I hope those starving people know what suffering I'm going through for them." 
Jim: "I'm getting hungry. What if I got down on my hands and knees..?" 
Me: "Don't do that. That's your sex beg, and I'm too busy choking on fish fumes right now." 
Jim: "I guess I'll be forced to look in the refrigerator, myself." 
Me, pointing at the refrigerator contents: "See there's plenty. You've got a pickle, two tablespoons of mayonnaise, and a candy bar. Wait, I need that chocolate for my low blood sugar, but you still have that pickle and the mayonaise. Make yourself a yummy pickle tapa." 
Jim: "My sophisticated, charming hot chick of a girlfiend, I'm begging you to feed me something, anything." 
Me: "Look, do you know how hard it is to keep up with the Joneses!? Do you realize what our neighbor, Betty, did last month? She homed the homessless, shoed the shoeless, and clothed the clothesless. By the way, that strip joint down the street is closing because of her." 
My point is that in order to compete with Little Miss Sunshine, I need to be sunnier, kinder, and givier. Look, you're not going to get any of this food. Sometimes, you have to be selfish to be altruistic. 
Jim: "Please?" 
Me: "No. Taking the time to feed you will interfere with my spiritual growth. I just can't WAIT to show up that neighbor of ours." 
Jim: "Well, you're taking the bus, then. I'm going to be busy looking for something to eat. By the way, did you say that Betty is a foodless feeder?" 
Me: "Fine, if my pickle's not good enough for you, then go to Betty! Let her satisfy that ravenous appetite of yours! We're through. I'm packing my basket and going to Atlanta!" 
With tears in my eyes and a candy bar in my hand, I left the smoked salmon in the ashtray, and proceeded to pack up the champagne and caviar. I caught the first bus out to Atlanta. 
                   * * * * * * * * * * * 
Tears stream down my cheeks like little bitty twin rivers as I recall what happened that fateful day to poor little me. 
I remember being on that Greyhound bus to Atlanta, my head leaning back aginast the headrest, my eyelids closed ..desperately needing to go pee knowing that I could not go pee because I was on a %!&#& Greyhound bus. 
Anyway, we finally get to Atlanta and I'm really happy because I finally get to do a good deed, and find a place to pee. 
Well, I don't see any place that looks like it has a public bathroom and I don't see anybody that looks hungry, either. I bravely trudge on with that heavy basket of caviar and champagne in my hand. I must have walked about a mile, when it hit me. Perhaps, I'm in the wrong neighborhood. 
By, this time, I'm practically crawling because my bladder is hurting.  I'm crying, and I still have fish breath from smoking that salmon earlier. I was truly learning the lesson of giving til it hurts. 
I stopped a passerby to ask where to go where they feed the hungry. 
He looked at me and said, "You really look like you could use some help. I'm not sure where the nearest Salvation Army is, but you will need to get rid of those bottles of champagne before they will accept you. Oh, and here's a mint, fish-breath." 
That's when it hit me. He thought I was poor and hungry. I tried to explain that I was merely broke and stinky, but he turned his back on me and refused to listen to my pleas for understanding and a bathroom. 
I was so frustrated by that time that I hollered at the top of my lungs, "Where are the HUNGRY HORDES?" 
Unfortunately, ..a trucker started blowing his horn right in the middle of the word, hordes, and it completely drowned out the "d" sound. God, I hate it what that happens to me. 
Anyway. 
About that time, I see a group of about 50 highly pissed off women racing in my direction and screaming, "How dare you call us hungry whores".you highly attractive woman? 
And, about that time, my having to go to the bathroom problem got fixed. It was kind of like being relieved and ashamed and embarrassed at the same timeï¿½.not unlike the emotions felt after one's first sexual experience. 
Let's get back to the beating up I was about to get. Thankfully, I don't remember much. I do recall someone grabbing my basket, and screaming, "Hallelujah, caloric intake!!!!" 
The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital with a detective standing there studying my beautiful face, except for all those cuts, scratches, deep gashes, and stitches on it. 
I was determined to help the police solve the case. Even through my arm was throbbing from the intense pain, I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a box of Kleenex. I knew they'd need a tissue sample for the DNA evidence. Everyone in the room started applauding my heroic effort, but, in my morphine- induced haze it sounded almost like they were laughing. 
The police worked doggedly and tirelessly on my case. I was questioned for what seemed to be hours about the horrible crime that was commited on my person. One question that seemed to be of particular interest to law enforcement was which liquor store I'd bought the champagne from. I raised myself up from my pillow, and with tremendous effort I whispered, "Bi-lo." I was determined to see the perpetrators of this heinous act brought to justice. 
About this time, I sank into unconsciousness. When I awoke, there they were, ..in my room, .my attackers!!!!! 
I shrank back in terror. I looked at my pillow. Were they planning on smothering me? I looked at my IV tubes. Perhaps, it was strangulation day at Grady Memorial. I looked at the financial forms on the table. That's it! They were going to bleed me to death.  God, I hate paper cuts. 
They started coming closer, their eyes gleaming. I shrank back further in my pillow, cause let's face it, I'm a scaredy-cat. 
I summoned all my courage and glared at them. "This won't be like it was last time. I'm ready for you this time. 
I have a catheter this time." 
Well, they all started laughing, and told me not to be so dramatic. They started explaining things to me, and suddenly my horrible ordeal started to make sense. 
The ladies were in Atlanta for a Weight-Watchers convention. They'd been celebrating their weight loss and had even taken a lesson in strip teasing to give them self-esteem about their bodies. Naturally, when that truck horn blew, and they couldn't hear the d in hordes, they thought I was referring to them. 
Those silly little whores. 
And, remember those hungry people in Atlanta that the tv reporter was talking about? Well, she was referring to the folks at the Weight Watchers convention. God, I've never felt so stupid and embarrassed. 
OK, yes, I have,  zillions of times. I told you I was an honest person. 
Anyway, the Weight Watchers ladies apologized. Did I mention that they were all drunk, too, from that champagne they stole from me? One of picked up the remote control and put MTV on. They all started dancing and one of them even started swinging from my IV pole. 
We even ate lunch together. They still had some caviar, cheese, and crackers from my basket. I had fishsticks and jello. 
Before they left, they handed me a bus ticket for home. 
So, the lesson here is to think twice before you got to Atlanta to do some hungry horde feeding. Just stay home and eat a pickle instead. 
</div> 
</div><h3>About the Author</h3>Edie Deween has been writing comedy online for years, however it has always been for her family and friends. After much prodding and cowtowing she has finaly started her own site <a href="http://www.ediedeween.com">www.ediedeween.com</a> called Edie's Playground. Be sure to subscribe to this <a target="_self" href="http://www.ediedeween.com">witty, humorous blog</a>, you will not want to miss a word. Article Source <a href="http://www.free-article-submit.com">Free Article Submit</a>