Plateful of Reruns

It may be hard for some to believe that somebody of my physique can be in love with food, but this petite-framed booty weighing in at a buck thirty and some change can really put it away.  Eating utensils have racked up the frequent flyer miles by taxiing into the human terminal called the mouth since my mother made little airplane sounds as she fed me Gerber classics.  Metabolism cunning as Lebron James’ tongue lashings toward the Cleveland Cavaliers have helped me flirt with the fatty foods without my back end draping a wide load sign like that of a haulin’ 18 wheeler.  The dinner table gives me a welcoming pat on the back as I come to its showcase each meal time; however, it can quickly transform itself into the Antique Road Show when it displays the throwback special attractions called left overs.

Left overs, you are the retail store’s returned, restocked, reduced price items of food.  Like the hitchhikers of meals, you position your thumb up as an indication of a ride wanted to one’s stomach.  You’re like a crew of hold over passengers at an airport waiting to fly stand-by. You stand together at the table much like nerds at a dance party with no dates who line themselves up against the wall and protrude a caption of “Rejects.”  You are the sad-faced puppy at a pet shop, and the doggie bag is your kennel.  In the line of food, you, the left overs, are the dysfunctional guests on stage during the taping of a Jerry Springer show.  A second hand serenade to a second hand taste bud.  The second edition, volume II of food.  Second-string players who were just as good during the meal, but were designated to warm the bench along the sidelines of the feeding trough.  The “As seen on Dinner Table” replicas of the festival held along the buffet line’s parade. You are better known as the understudies to the Broadway stars of food.  When on the table with freshly made cuisines, you are the “extras” needed to fill the scene.  Carrying a confidence rate of subzero, you list yourself as an edible out of work porn star. Left overs are defined in eatery urban dictionaries as the white trash of chow.  Some of your redistributed dishes posing on the plates could be the pictures on PeopleofWalmart.com of nourishment.  The senior citizens of kitchen productions;  the crotchety old man, residents in the land of misfit toys of menu items, you sit in the pity party circle wearing sweat pants three times the size of your bodies while eating junk food and watching reran showings of Twilight.  You not only smell like death, but you taste like it too. The castaway of sustenance, as Limbaugh is the shoe-in to Hall of Stupid. 

I could go on forever, but I feel this gave an accurate portrayal of reheated food. So, somebody better give these left overs a sympathy card and a tissue because they’re crying a river like Oprah Winfrey when she announced she was hangin’ up her show of 25 years.