Special Weekend Edition: About Rat Boy

I first met Rat Boy seven years ago while waiting in line for the Tubs O' Fun at the local carnival. Predictable music filled the air alongside smells of popcorn, corndogs and corn on the cob. I chewed candy corn impatiently as I once again checked my watch; it had been twenty-six minutes since I first placed myself in line. A small boy was staring at me uneasily as he held his father's hand. I stared back. The child's gaze suddenly widened while his jaw slowly opened. My eyes followed his stare catching a glimpse of a small creature of brown, blotchy fur. It was a boy, yet at the same time it was a rat. It was some kind of rat boy. Without a moment of hesitation, I began chasing this monstrosity into the darkness, uncontrollably drawn to the mysteriousness of a rodent creature with a human face. He scurried away but soon found himself cornered. "No use resisting Rat Boy", I said. Scooping him up, I gently placed him in my shirt pocket, patting him on his little balding head.

Frank's Clouds

Right off of Rt. 95 in downtown Philadelphia is the world's largest and most prestigious cloud factory. As you are passing the Cottman Avenue exit, look to your left (if you are heading south), you will see a giant, neon sign which reads "Frank's Clouds, Inc.", you can't miss it. They are the world's supplier of stratocumulus, cumulus congestus, altostratus undulatus and even cumulonimbus with mammatus. No matter your cloud necessities, Frank's expert cloud-techs will work directly with you to provide the clouds you need to your exact specifications. All on time and under budget.

And hey, be sure to tell 'em Yummy Hut sent you.


This was a paid advertisement for Frank's Clouds, Inc. Philadelphia, PA

Friday Haiku X

~CLEVELAND~

Manufacturing
Progress and prosperity

The forest city

No Use Crying Over Spilled Blue Paint

One glorious, sunny morning as singing birds gathered outside of my window, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. Carelessly, I swung open the cabinet door whacking myself in the forehead; the impact sent me reeling backwards through the open basement door and down the steps with a repeated thud. I landed underneath a shelf which had been loosened by my fall overturning an entire bucket of blue latex paint which was now steadily flowing on top of my head. After a moment, I stood up feeling dizzy; everything was a swirl of blurry blue. Without realizing, I reached out towards my wood burning stove (I thought it was a support beam) trying to brace myself. Scream. Pain. Smell of flesh burning. Instantly I ran towards the sink for some cool water relief, but instead stepped on a poorly placed rake which slapped me in the face upon its swift upright positioning. Stumbling out of the back basement door, I bumped my knee on a circular saw as I made my way into the backyard; which incidentally is a field of cacti. Predictably, within moments, I had cactus pricks all over my body. That's when I noticed that at some point I had managed to get a glass jar stuck on my left hand. Pain was all I knew as I blindly tripped over a tricycle into a murky, alligator infested swamp. I sat up, wiped the mud from my face, clearing my vision just in time to see the alligator with its open jaw. Somehow my shirt was on fire. All in all, it was still the best day I had had all week.

Yummy Hut Guest Writer: Vladimir Nabokov

One of the greatest writers of the past century; Yummy Hut presents Mr. Vladimir Nabokov.

YUMMY HUT by Vladimir Nabokov

Yummy Hut, light of my life, fire of my mind. My blog, my soul. Yum-ee-hut: the tip of the tongue taking a trip three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Yum. Ee. Hut. Did Yummy Hut have a precursor? It did, indeed it did. In point of fact, there might have been no Yummy Hut at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial blog-site. In a  princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Yummy Hut was started as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

Thanks Vlad! 

Friday Haiku IX

~PANTS~

Pleated brown chinos
Red sun, fades the blue denim
I fear acid wash

Yummy Hut Guest Writer: Dr. Seuss

Yummy Hut is proud to finally present the first installment of our "Guest Writer Series". We are honored to have Dr. Seuss as our first contributor.

BALLOON RACE by Dr. Seuss

The Funwazzles and Blandoodles at the town fair.
Catching balloons to fly through the air.
Red ones, blue ones, green ones and yellow.
"Nice work!" says Mayor Gumbunch, a round, jolly fellow.
A Funwazzle has three balloons, as he starts to fly.
A Blandoodle with four, begins to glide very high.
The sky is soon filled with flyers galore.
Blandoodles and Funwazzles gracefully soar.
Town folk cheer; they cheer and they cheer.
The flyers are specks that soon disappear.

Friday Haiku VIII

~I LIKE SEARS~

Three-spoke quill handle

An extra-large head casting

My Craftsman drill press

Friday Haiku VII

~TECHNOLOGY, SOMETIMES NOT SO COOPERATIVE~

Laptop malfunction
I press the keys; tap, tap, tap
Nothing happens; tap

Friday Haiku VI

~THREE DAY WEEKEND~

Friday Haiku time

Forlorn, I will let you down

Doing other things

Global Warming... Hurry Up!

My name is Bog, I have been frozen inside this wall of ice for over 40,000 years and I love bananas. It all began one Upper Paleolithic spring morning, I departed from my rocky dwelling to hunt mammoth but lost my way amongst the trees that always seemed so familiar. For days I tried retracing my steps for a way home, only to find nothing in the form of help or direction. It was on the seventh day that I met the shining man. His body was a glimmering silver color, his head covered by a sort of shield. At first, he simply stood still in the middle of the forest as I watched him from afar. When he noticed me staring, he beckoned me to come towards him. As I approached, he handed me a yellow object and gestured for me to eat it. "It's a banana", the shining man said. I took a bite, it was splendid! I gestured back to him to give me more. "Peel it this time", he said while showing me how to remove the outer, protective layer. This made the banana taste even better! My elation at this discovery made the shining man smile. "For you", he said pointing to the entire banana pile. I eagerly grabbed another, then another. When I turned around, the shining man had vanished without a trace. For years I stood there, eating the bananas oblivious to the changing climate that was transforming the world around me. Then it happened, my freezing fingers could no longer peel bananas. To this day I stand here frozen, holding a delicious banana as I wait for a thaw so I may taste the sweet mush once more.

Those Pesky, Scheming Farm Animals

I'm pretty sure that the entirety of my cattle are plotting some sort of effort against me, it looms in the air alongside purple storm clouds. I sit in my chair, peering out of the window while pulling the lace curtain aside, shotgun within my clutch. I see one of them gnawing at the grass as if nothing is amiss, playing the coy cow. No doubt the chickens are wise to the situation at hand. Several of them peck the ground for bits of feed that remain, eyeing me from the corners of their beady little eyes. I release the curtain; I've seen enough. I load my shotgun and watch the door as thunder rumbles across the cooling sky. A long moo in the distance, the signal has been given. I brace for the attack.

Friday Haiku V

~IN MEMORIAM~

Tattered kitchen sponge
Hygienic service no more
Into the garbage

Elebratecay Igpay Atinlay Istoryhay Onthmay!

Amay isay Igpay Atinlay Istoryhay Onthmay. Elphay elebratecay ybay earninglay aboutay Igpay Atinlay ulturecay, usicmay, anday ethey eoplepay owhay avehay elpeday apesahy ouray istoryhay. Orfay moremay informationay, easeplay isitvay oury ebsiteway atay wwway.igpayatinlayistoryhay.omcay.

Eerschay! 

Just Another Tuesday

There is nothing I love more than dancing the night away. Tonight however, I have the realization that there is nowhere for me to “get down”, so I remove my (very fine) dancing shoes and scorn the twilight. Once again I’ll just lay on the floor, listen to some records and feel sad.

Home Sweet Home

How I ever got here I do not know, but for five years I have been stuck in this box. The room is a perfect cube, approximately twenty feet in every direction with no doors or windows to speak of. On one wall, there is a clock in the shape of a cat, whose eyes shift back and forth with each passing second. On the opposite wall is a small painting of a shoeless boy fishing off of a pier. Other than these two items, the room is void of decor. In the middle of the ceiling there is a sliding hatch which randomly opens to drop various items down into my space (books, clothes, photographs; I was once mysteriously given a gold trophy). Each day at exactly 11am, a parachute carrying a tray of food slowly descends, gently landing on my floor. These meals are not your ordinary dishes, all are unique and more delicious than the next. They transcend all varieties of cuisine, sometimes being atypical enough to be "unclassifiable". In fact, all of the items I've received are one-of-a-kind and of the highest quality. The books (written by authors I've never heard of) contain stories that are more interesting and gripping than anything I've read in the outside world. The photographs are always beautifully composed while the clothes are soft, comfortable and quite frankly, look great (as if they were custom made just for me). Suddenly, I hear the sound of the hatch slide open and I look up, horrified to see what is plunging down to greet me.

Friday Haiku IV

~THE CLOGGER~

Succulent, shaved steak
Salami, bacon and cheese
More than a sandwich

Pod Nosem

"You have one more wish left", the plump, silvery fish informed me. I had been fishing all morning and this was the first catch of the day. In exchange for his freedom, this fish was to grant me three wishes. The first two had been spent hastily, so I wanted the third one to really count. After several minutes of pensive brainstorming, I came up with the one thing that I truly fancied above all else. "Um... I'd like to grow a mustache" I said. The fish nodded his head (as he had done the previous two times) , chanted his magical fish language chant "Ulla bubble nof-nof gazoo!" and I was instantly showered with glimmering confetti and mini balloons as the transformation began. My eyes strained to look down at my upper lip while the handle-bar facial hair curved into place; the excitement was terrific. I gave a playful pull on the squeaky, curled up facial hair just to make sure it was really there and that I was not dreaming. "Thank you", I said. After tossing him back into the big blue sea, I waved good-bye. The rest of the afternoon, I fished without a care in the world.

Beware: The Future

The winding road spread infinitely before me along the rocky, coastal cliff. I took a sip of beer, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and threw the empty can onto the blurred blacktop below. "Say What You Will" (by Fastway) was on the radio as I mindlessly maneuvered the convertible through another dangerous curve. In the passenger seat, my robot was going on and on, complaining about his rusty, malfunctioning servo harness. Within the span of a few hours, he had already smoked up half my cigarettes while boring me with story after story, anecdote after anecdote. Storytelling was not part of his original programming, but over the years he had unfortunately learned this new trait from all the degenerate robots in Type-C specification school. He continued, "So then this variable-sequence robot comes up to me and he says..." I stared at the road, not listening to my counterpart. After a minute or so there was laughter, then immediately another monologue about Carnegie Mellon's robotics club and robot armies and blah, blah, blah. I pondered driving off the side of the road into the water below, but the lack of bones and organs would certainly insure his survival and he'd probably just keep going on and on as I lay there dead. "Hey, I'm getting hungry, you mind if we stop at an oiling station?", he inquired suddenly enthused. I didn't respond as I stared ahead wishing this heap of scrap metal seated next to me would just power down. "You mind if I bum another cigarette?", he asked reaching over taking one before I could respond. My fingers gripped the wheel harder as I sped up. Four more hours and we'd be there. Four more long, excruciating hours. "Nothing like the open road", he said exhaling a puff of nicotine. I cracked open another beer.

The Perfect Storm

The first rubber chicken fell upon my lap with a muffled slap. Needless to say, I was startled and, not to mention, slightly injured (just a small welt on my left thigh, no need to send get well cards or flowers or anything like that). Shielding the sun with my hand, I peered upward seeking the source, but found only expansive blue sky and a puffy cloud patch here and there. No one else in the park seemed to notice my sudden good fortune, but being the hyper-paranoid person that I am, I hurriedly packed my new treasure into an army green knapsack. "Best to just leave before anyone notices", I thought to myself. So I stood up, brushed the dirt and grass off the back of my legs, gathered my belongings (novel, blanket, boom-box, new rubber chicken) and began to leave; that is until I heard a woman's harrowing shriek. Turning around, I noticed at her feet lay a rubber chicken. Within seconds another rubber chicken landed just twenty paces away, then another and another. Before anyone could process what was happening, these whimsical fowls were raining down at a furious rate. People scrambled for safety, tripping over the scattered rubber chickens, petrified by this most unorthodox circumstance. Alas, fifty-six days later, I sit here writing this blog. I gaze lovingly out of the window admiring the rubber chickens that still continue to fall. I pray it will never end.

Friday Haiku III

~MY MISTAKE~

Haikus are not thus
As were written in this blog
Before I knew. Oops.

Basically, it was brought to my attention that Haikus are 5-7-5 not 7-5-7 as I had done previously. Yummy Hut apologizes for any confusion this may have caused.

An Explanation of My Two-Week Hiatus

It all started one spring evening while sitting in the stands of the stadium for baseball playing. With runners on the corners, a lanky relief pitcher had just walked yet another opposing batter. This young man wiped the sweat from his brow as the groans and boos fell upon the night like slow churning butter. At his wits end, the manager of the hometown team called time out and dejectedly walked out towards the grass. With a pensive stare he scanned the stands, peering at the individuals chomping their hot dogs and sipping their beers. I shifted uneasily in my seat (sec. 134, row 6, seat 7) nervously awaiting his darting glance. When (inevitably) our eyes met, his widened as if horrified. He turned to spit, then waved me onto the field. A suddenly transformed crowd cheered heartily like slow churning butter as I made my way through them to the field below. "Throw 'em your Spacey Spiral Ball", the mustachioed manager grumbled to me as he slammed the ball into my six-fingered hand. I gave a quick nod of approval, walked to the mound and kicked at the dirt. Collecting my thoughts, I took a deep breath and began my baseball career by striking out the side on nine pitches. Eventually, they gave me a uniform (with a 61 sewn on the back) allowing me to travel with the team and lead them to victory night after night. After winning the championship, I was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame (http://web.baseballhalloffame.org) and retired as quickly as I had begun; leaving me to pursue my real passion, writing a nonsensical blog like slow churning butter.

Friday Haiku II

~A SAD, BUT TRUE HAIKU~

Where is my case of CDs?

Seriously now...

Out the car door is likely.

They Can't Help It

Sitting on a cardboard box waiting for the Enormo-Mart to open, I was suddenly grabbed by the arm and pulled to my feet. "We need you, now!" yelled a man dressed in Purina checkerboard slacks (ref. Nighthawks at the Diner). Before I could react, I was thrust into a 1995 GMC Rally Vandura G3500 with a 7.4L V8, wood trim interior and custom paint; and away we went. The drive was long and void of scenery until a building appeared alone in the distance. We pulled in front where a sign read "Crystal Springs Theater of the Arts and Crafts for the Attention Deficient". Greeting us at the front door were more Purina checkerboard slacked men, all of whom seemed even more frantic than the next. I was confused but content. Without moving a muscle, I was changed into a viking costume, pushed onto the stage and forced to belt out an a cappella version of "Un aura amorosa". No one seemed to be paying much attention.

Fish Face

"Is this yours?" the detective asked for the umpteenth time in the last hour. "Yes." I  replied again, mindlessly. What was he trying to solve? The only mystery that I could think of was why he was in my apartment in the first place. "Is that yours?" he asked again, pointing to a candelabra. The detective was a midget cyclops and had tufts of hair emitting from his shoulders. Like any detective, he carried around a magnifying glass and some forceps. There was a tattoo on his right forearm of what looked like a fish with a human face. "Facey" was written underneath the grotesque image. As I sat mesmerized by this man (creature?), he suddenly erupted with an "A-Ha!!!", the mystery was solved.

Reading is Fundamental

Every time I ride public transportation, I see a guy dressed up as the Mad Hatter. Sometimes he shadows my movement, other times he ignores me completely, but he is always there. Occasionally, he is accompanied by an entourage of people dressed in giant-headed bunny costumes. On these days, the whole train/bus is filled with their musical theater. They sing and sing. I'm not exactly sure of the lyrics, but all of the songs are about babies. What is more perplexing, is that everyone on the train (even those not in costume) seem to know these songs and enthusiastically sing along. Picture dozens of passengers mindlessly clapping, beaming at the Mad Hatter as he conducts the bunny chorus through another round of singing  "Babies, babies, how many babies are in the tree?". Despite all of this nonsense, I enjoy riding public transit as it provides adequate time to get some reading done.

Friday Haiku

~THE LONELIEST MAILBOX IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD~

Mailbox in a large green field

Despondent, alone

Once again, no mailman came

Paul Simon

Recently, I realized that I had the capability to travel through time. Taking full advantage of this discovery, I travelled back in time to witness many wonderful events: the birth of me, me attending my first day of school and of course, me writing yesterday's blog about the "new look". The secret to properly traveling through time (you'll kick yourself, it is so obvious), is scooters... or perhaps Paul Simon.

New Look! Same New Blog!

Don't let the graphical banner confuse you. This is still the one and only Yummy Hut. Resource for many, discourse of few. We are enhancing our appearance in lieu of the low number of readers. One, to be exact.

Mr. Parkinglot

One time I was in a parking lot standing in line to meet Bob Dole. As we all know, when you meet Mr. Dole, you either receive an autograph or a hand-made pair of ballerina shoes (made on the spot by Mr. Dole himself). Not being much of an autograph seeker, I opted for a pair of the ballerina shoes. As Mr. Dole started into the sewing/mending of the silky fabric, those standing in line behind me grew impatient, many voicing their displeasure. Bob Dole is not as dexterous as he used to be (who is really?), and sure it was going to take him some time and effort to construct ballerina shoes; but I couldn't help my annoyance at those who were boisterously complaining. Why the impatience? I gave a menacing glare to the trouble makers behind me. Bob Dole smiled and handed me a deliciously soft pair of shoes with lace uppers and a luxurious satin lining. I happily accepted this most generous gift. Then I was harassed by a legless woman seeking money for postcards (she was in my car). What a day!

This is the Plan

I wish I were on a fishing trip somewhere in the eastern region of Alaska. If I close my eyes, I can picture the frosty horizon, blinding white. Like a big giant snowflake. I would fish all day, catching fish. Then I would eat the fish I caught. After I ate the fish, I would turn into a fish and be a fish. I would be a fish and do fish things. This includes (but not limited to) swimming, looking at other fish, being wet (always) and of course, smelling fishy. I would have fish friends who also swim, look, are wet, and smell fishy. We would always be doing fish stuff together. Sometimes we would swim far away to places like New Zealand, where we would turn into a large group of robots and attack.