No offense to cowboys

breweries copyThere’s a new reality TV show that’s going to be based in my home state of Idaho.

As you can imagine, it’s all about hipsters comparing cruiser bicycle accessories, whining about vinyl becoming too mainstream while sipping cups of free trade pour-over coffee.

Hang on, no. This is Idaho, and the series, focusing on three rival outfitting and guide families, is probably going to have a lot more to do with how to open a beer bottle with a chain saw and lighting farts on fire.

Mike and I have come up with a different idea for a reality TV show, one based upon our reality.

It happened when Mike came in the kitchen the other night and found me rinsing a mountain of plastic containers.

“Hey, thanks for cleaning out the fridge,” he said.

I’m kind of in denial about food waste and am usually overconfident that we will one day eat that leftover chili mac before it morphs into something else. In fact, I’m kind of anti throwing ANYTHING away, so, you know, cleaning the fridge out can be painful.

But it had to be done. There was no room for more leftovers. Or for beer.

“You’re kind of like that TV show,” he said. “The one, what was it? With the angel or the medium or something?”

This is how it starts, our most frequently reoccurring conversation. The one where we can’t remember the name of a thing, and so we blend a couple of different names that it could be, and then we think we’re so hilarious we start using the new, blended name instead of the real name, and eventually I can’t remember the real name at all and we start using the made-up name in public and nobody knows what we’re talking about.

There’s a brewery down the street, for example. There are a lot of breweries cropping up around here lately. This one is called Barrel House. Then there’s one downtown called Ten Barrel. Then there’s a buffet restaurant somewhere in between the two (at which I would never be caught – as a general rule I avoid places that have more than a certain linear footage of sneeze guards), called Cracker Barrel.

So either of the two establishments, and in fact any of the breweries around town, are automatically christened something new: Cracker Barrel Beer, Ten Crackers, Cracker House … This only has to happen so many times before I can’t remember what any establishment is really called, and I sound like an idiot giving anybody directions.

Eventually, we’re going to get to a point where our whole language is just made up garbley-gook that no one but we can understand. They’ll all think we’re demented.

We’ll probably still think we’re hilarious.

So Mike’s trying to recall the name of a TV show that we used to watch back when we watched something besides Netflix, and of course, he can’t remember it, because we probably had a whole different name for it.

It was something called Groped by an Angel, or Medium Whisperer or something. We can’t remember.

But it’s something about how someone helps dead people find their way to the light.

“That’s what I think this show could be,” Mike says, “You helping leftovers understand that it’s their time to pass over, they’re gone.”

Grocery Whisperer.

It has to be better than watching dumb cowboys light their farts on fire.


I know, that’s just dumb. Grocery Whisperer. We’re still in the conceptual stage. That shouldn’t keep you from voting though. Thanks.



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