And yes, even more from Forlorn, the novel.

It was mid-day, and the Cmmdr sat at the small kitchen table shoveling chile down his throat, straight from the can, with the force of an insurgent loading an IED. In front of him lay the Arts section of the New York Times, and the thick squat pocket-sized idiot was fuming. This cocksucker, he thought, referring to an actor mentioned favorably in the review. Who the fuck is he? Oh, he’s got hair and he’s a New York actor. Fuck him, sputtered the Cmmdr aloud, as beans and tomato sauce sprayed from his mouth and hit the wall. I was in New York for Christ’s sake, he thought. And people liked me too-- But the doorbell interrupted his reverie.
“Yes?” he asked the UPS guy.
“Package for the Ensign, sign here.”
The Cmmdr scribbled his name, glancing at the return address on what was a rather massive and heavy crate. AGRICORP, INC. it read. From Iowa. What the hell? Then he noticed the icon of a trough on the package. This packge contained a feeding trough for horses. With grudging admiration, he had to admit the mooching minor television player who turned his garage into a rancid rat hole was one Israelite who took his fiber seriously.
And as if on cue, the Ensign entered the kitchen, his Carrie Perloff Loves Me! t-short soaked from his daily run.
“The trough arrived.”
“Listen, you won’t even see it, I’ll set it up behind the garage.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s these new rolled oats I just got, they’re steel-cut with rolled flakes, completely hulled. Pure groats! Just the inner kernel, and they’ve been scoured and aspirated. They’re baby steel-cut too, they’ve been through the flaking mill three times! And get this – they’ve been granulated, which is extraordinary in a baby steel-cut groat. The trough is the most efficient way to eat them”
“Great,” said the Cmmdr, licking the rest of the chile from the can, trying not to cut his tongue in the process. “What’s on the docket?”
“Well,” began the Judaic not-haver, “I’ve got that operation tomorrow.”
“What operation?”
“Over at Cedar-Sinai, I told you.”
“No.”
“I’m having my laptop surgically attached to my mid-torso.”