The Big Kahuna wants to start off this week by apologizing to the fanatical throngs of faithful readers for not making an appearance last week.
See, while you dry up your tears and quiet your worried hearts, you should know I was reeling with illness.
Yes, the BK was absolutely drained of all energies, twitching and turning in pain, miserable in his angst and coiled by the most debilitating of diseases.
I was being treated for a severe addiction.
And I was going through withdrawal.
Addiction is not an affliction that should be taken lightly. We are all addicted to one thing or another in our lives, some of the things are beneficial while others are just plain harmful.
We cannot really explain our addictions. Some of us are not even aware we have them.
Did Bill Clinton really know he was addicted to sex with rather obtuse and ugly women?
Did George Bush get treatment for his addiction to execute busloads of prisoners in Texas? (In the case of Bush, his addiction only worsened once he entered the White House and his lust was exported overseas. But hush, God told him to do it.)
Last week, I thought of telling MM that I had absconded of all responsibility, of needing to escape to one of those expensive spas where cats are treated for their addiction to tuna.
I needed someone to help me break my most debilitating of habits. I couldn’t do it alone. I called a doctor friend of mine – KS – but he couldn’t help me.
I sat there, stony faced, scratching behind my ear like a starved canine. My tongue hit the floor and searched for my drug. My Preciousssss .
Three days into my withdrawal I really did look like Gollum (Smeagol to the business world).
AN called to check up on me and I told her to frolic off of me.
I need my sushi dammit. I can’t live without it. Tepa Maki, Philadelphia rolls – oh how Bruce Springsteen adores you.
I needed to be with California Roll and my favorite unagi. Eels, slimy, wet eels coiled around my body, making their way into my mouth.
And all the steamed rice that’s fit to dump into a vat of sugar and vinegar.
Give me that salmon over a Mac any day, Toro tuna fat belly, smelly but oh so yummy.
Preciousss, give me my precioussss.
Yes, I am addicted and like the sex-induced happy hour in the Herbal Essences shampoo ad I want to kick my head back and scream with delight every time I pick up a seaweed-wrapped sesame seed-coated tako sushi with my wooden chopsticks.
Fish, vitamen E, good fats, I do not care. Just feed me. Please. Precious?
By day five of my efforts to cure my addiction I grew to hate humanity. I did not want to hear of open water, fishing trawlers, tuna cans (tuna piano?) or Japan.
Those nasty Japanese. I hate them. I hate them for being so efficient and invading the world BANZAI-style to force us, lure us, entice us with their rice and fish.
I hate them for creating sushi at the turn of the 20th century as a fast food in Japan’s growing metropolitan centers. And here we are in the 21st century and Japan has won the war, I don’t care what Ike says.
Ed’s note: Two days after filing the above report, BK succumbed to his sushi lust by jumping into the Mediterranean off the Alexandria coast. Last we hear, he was drowning in a barrel of Soy sauce, wasabi, and ginger.