Sal DeTraglia

The world has been in a heightened state of anxiety since Kim Jong Il and his North Korean regime successfully tested a nuclear weapon last weekend.

And from far and wide, the good people of planet Earth are begging for just one thing.

No, no, no…not COCONUT! *I’m* the only one begging for that.

Rather, the good people of planet Earth are begging for…silly poems about North Korea!

Fortunately, I—in my official capacity as Minister of Silly Poems—published a few of them on this VTB on April 1, 2005.

So, do your frazzled nerves a favor and click HERE.

C’mon…go ahead! If you can’t laugh in the face of armageddon, then when can you laugh?

There are two gadgets that were invented, manufactured and marketed specifically for me.

One is the electronic calculator. I simply can’t do math in my head. Not even if my life depended on it. And a boatload of college and graduate-level algebra and statistics courses have done nothing to change that.

Want an example? Here’s one that I swear is true.

I once withdrew 130€ from an ATM and received a fifty and four twenties. I counted them, and they equaled 100€. I counted them again—knowing full well that ATM’s rarely make mistakes—and they still equalled 100€. I counted them a third time (still 100€!) and then complained to the bank manager who—with a look that exhibited both bewilderment and concern—showed me very slowly, very tenderly that 50+20+20+20+20=130.

The other invention is the global positioning system (or “GPS”). And that’s what I’m going to talk about today.

To say that I was born with a poor sense of direction is inaccurate. I was, in fact, born with no sense of direction whatsoever. Over the years, I’ve devised strategies for coping with this shortcoming. The most effective strategy has been to carefully determine the direction in which my destination lies…and then go the opposite direction. That usually does the trick.

But then, while I was in Chicago during Christmas 2005, I took my father’s truck out for a spin and noticed something unusual in the dashboard. It was a GPS.

A GPS! I’d heard about these things, but had never…you know…touched one.

Or caressed one.

Or deep tissue massaged one.

And now, there I was…all alone in that truck…with a GPS.

I punched in an address. Any address.

“1313 COCONUT Grove. Yeah! That’s a good one!”

And as that beautiful little hunka silcone took me by the hand and lovingly deposited me at my destination as if we had made the drive a million times before, I fell madly in love.

The Beatles famously stated that “Money Can’t Buy Me Love.” But in this case, it could. The problem, however, was that the cost of love was 500€-700€. So I sadly observed an indefinite vow of GPS celibacy.

The vow lasted for what seemd to be an eternity. Until…I opened the newspaper a few weeks ago and saw the following announcment in the insert for a Spanish electronics store chain called Media Markt:

“GARMIN STREETFINDER c310 GPS: 199€!”

199€?!!! I leaped into my car and drove in the exact opposite direction of where I knew the store was located. An hour later and 200€ poorer, I was giddily licking the suction cup of my new GPS.

And yesterday morning, I took it on its first, real mission: “GPS, my dear. Take me to IKEA!”

And guess what? The GPS got me to IKEA in record time. And it got me there with neither an iota of stress nor a single U-turn. For me, that’s unheard of!!!

And best of all, that little GPS freed my mind to focus on other, more important things while driving. Like…like…like…well, like COCONUT!

I walked into IKEA feeling like a man with supreme confidence. And I walked out of IKEA 200€ poorer. But that’s OK, because you know what they say.

“Steel colander for straining pasta: 8€.”

“Drafting table and chair for your daughter’s birthday: 110€.”

“A sense of direction after 39 years of fantasizing about one: Priceless!”

A favorite game of my daughter’s and mine is to grab a make-up kit and paint each other’s face.

In this installment, Inés is a craggy old lady and I, apparently, am a clown with five eyes. Or is it two eyes and three COCONUTS? You be the judge.

But that’s not the real reason that I’m posting this photo. The real reason is to prove to my friend “BeeP” at Culinary Fool—who frequently mocks me for never smiling for photos—that I do, in fact, have all my teeth.

With all this talk about COCONUT recently, you may have forgotten all about our friend Jasemine.

Several months have passed since Jazzy has pulled-up a barstool here at the VTB. That’s too long.

So I snatched her from the sidewalk during her walk this morning and—channeling the spirit of the now-deceased Crocodile Hunter—wrestled the mighty beast for a full ten seconds until my digicam’s self-timer snapped the above photo.

And here she is! As stubborn as ever…yet still adorable. My-oh-my…how my little girl has grown.

I must take a moment to pay tribute to my favorite cheesehead/artist/trivia-savant, Lisa—who left the following, absolutely brilliant, Comment in the VTB Chat Lounge tonight:

Look at it, folks! Look at it closely! It may take a minute or two, but it will eventually hit you.

Thanks, Lisa. You’re the apple of my Cow Pie.

There are some people whose only taste of COCONUT during their entire lives was within the context of an Almond Joy or Raspberry Zinger.

Come to think of it, that still sounds like a pretty damn good life. But a true coco-head really should try this ambrosia in its purest state.

So this afternoon, my daughter–who, BTW, loves COCONUT almost as much as I do–and I created this short tutorial. But before I begin, let me put your minds at ease. The victim in this tutorial was not Captain Coconut. It was a stunt double.

So, let’s get started.

Step 1: Take a COCONUT, a hammer and a Phillips-head screwdriver. Then, reenact that famous scene from “Oedipus Rex.” Yes, that’s right…you must drive that screwdriver through two of the COCONUT’S eyes. No, it’s not necessary that the COCONUT in question marry his mother. Drain the liquid from the COCONUT and drink it, or something.

Step 2: Roast the whole COCONUT in a 375ºF oven for twenty minutes.

Step 3: When cool, grab that hammer again and crack the COCONUT.

Step 4: Peel the dark brown skin off of the outside of the COCONUT flesh.

Step 5: Crunch away, amigos.

Fat Sal never breaks a promise.

That’s true under normal circumstances. But it’s triple-dog true when that promise pertains to his beloved COCONUT.

So recall, if you will, that I recently committed to our good friend Euro Trac that I would dress Captain Coconut as The King.

And so…as you see above…another promise has been fulfilled.

Hey Trac, why don’t you tell everyone what type of sandwich that is?