I don't think you're ready-o for this jayo

I have a friend named Melly. I don't know why she calls herself Melly. I'm guessing it is short for Melissa or Melinda or maybe Melancholy, any one of which would make a solid first name. The word "melly" reminds me of my first best friend, Steven.

We were the tightest of pals from kindergarten until 7th grade. We used to kick tennis balls together (what else are you gonna do with them?), fortify our Joshua tree forts, and have philosophical conversations ranging from the existence of free will to what kind of boogers are the most delectable.

Steven was one of those kids who had a bit of a mumbling problem. The kind of problem that most of us reacted to in the same way when we talked to a mumbler in school--just laugh at what they say and let them wonder what's so funny about "Can I borrow a pencil?"

He also had problems with certain words. One day as his mom prepared his lunch for school, she asked him what he wanted to eat. He replied, "Peanut butter and melly." She asked again to make sure, and yes, indeed, the hard "m" confirmed that peanut butter and melly was the combination he was craving that day.

Obviously, he meant jelly. I find it odd that his mom didn't put two and two together because she ended up making him a peanut butter and *mayonnaise* sandwich. Thank goodness he never asked for extra "jayo" on his tuna fish sandwich.

Steven was quite shocked when lunch time came around that day. I'm sure he went hungry because there's no way I would have offered him any of my baloney sandwich. Speaking of bologna, when's the last time you had one of those sandwiches? Seems like we're not supposed to eat them past puberty, especially if they are stored in a Star Wars lunch box.

When Steven brought the now mouth-watering sandwich home that night, somehow his younger brother and father ended up trying it...and they liked it! Thus, peanut butter and melly became a staple in their house although Steven never warmed up to it. True story.

Thanks to google I found out that sometimes Santa and his sons serve peanut butter and melly to children.

All this reminiscing has me yearning for simpler times. You know what? Screw social norms. I'm going to the park this weekend to kick some tennis balls, make a fort, and eat a baloney sandwich. And for dessert: a nice bloody booger. I think even Aristotle would agree that those are the tastiest by far.