The Gravity Tax and the Gimpy Hand
Let’s talk about the logistics of dinner when you roll through life on four wheels. No matter how perfectly flush your table is, gravity remains an undefeated, cold-hearted bastard.
Unless you want to hunch over your plate like a starving gargoyle, your shirt is always in the direct firing line of stray marinara and runaway gravy. Leaning forward over the plate isn’t an option. Bringing the plate up to my face? Sure, if I want to play Russian Roulette with a heavy pane of glass using a gimpy hand that is just waiting to drop the whole apparatus into a million pieces. I’m going to knock it, break it, drop it—it’s just a statistical certainty.
For years, well-meaning folks would hit me with that deeply patronizing line: “Well, maybe you just need a bib.”
First of all, fuck you. I am a grown-ass man. I am a thirty-year radio veteran. I do not need a cartoon elephant tied around my neck to indicate I lack the basic coordination to feed myself without a plastic tarp. The word “bib” implies you’re teething, drooling, and throwing pureed peas. My adult ego flatly refused it.
The Christmas Compromise
Then, Christmas rolled around, and someone gifted me an apron. I sat there, looked at it, and giggled. But then I realized—society has historically grandfathered the apron into the realm of domestic mastery. If you wear an apron, you’re a chef, a craftsman, a grill master. It’s a uniform. It has utility.
So I said, “Fuck it, I’m over the pride. I don’t even care anymore.”
I started wearing it. The problem? The one I got was made of standard kitchen cloth. Sure, it caught the flying food, but cloth absorbs the evidence. You drop a stray meatball, and now that apron is out of commission and headed straight to the washing machine. To survive a week of dinners, you need a whole rotating wardrobe of cloth aprons because one is always inherently in the wash. That’s just a logistical headache.
Enter the Bay Harbor Butcher
I went online to solve the laundry crisis and ordered a new one. I didn’t want cloth this time. I wanted something wipeable.
What arrived in the mail was a heavy-duty, industrial-grade, thick black vinyl apron.
The second I buckled this thing on, the kitchen completely vanished. I wasn’t a guy trying to eat a plate of spaghetti anymore. I was Dexter Morgan.
This thing is so thick, heavy, and intimidating that I could completely dismember a body in my kitchen and not get a single drop of tissue, bone dust, or excavator fluid on my actual clothes. It screams “Bay Harbor Butcher.” It doesn’t look like I’m getting ready to eat dinner; it looks like I’m getting ready to clear the plastic-wrapped kill room before the Miami Metro Police Department shows up.
So yeah, at the end of the day, it’s an adult bib. But when your protective gear makes it look like you’re about to go full serial killer on a plate of lasagna, nobody smiles patronizingly at you anymore. They just pass the salt very, very carefully
Have something to say? We welcome your comments below — this is where the real conversation happens.
Each blog post is shared across our social transmitters, but those are just bigger antennas. The original source — and the signal we control — is right here on the blog. If you’re looking for other ways to stay updated on Rolling with Scissors, you’ll find our official transmitters linked below.
Spin the dial — we’re probably on it. Lock onto your frequency. Pick your favorite antenna below and ride the signal back to us.
0 Comments