Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Did you know that if you barf really hard you can give yourself not just one, but two lovely black eyes?
Neither did I! Happy to say I'm looking less racoony as I write, though... my eyeballs still hurt, though.
I'd love to say the barfing was brought on by one of the debates, but alas, no, just a reaction to one of the messes I cooked and called dinner.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Everyone hated Disco. It's a fact. Seriously, no joking, millions upon millions of albums were purchased by: a band of interplanetary pranksters, angels, demons, parallel universe interloping shenanigazers, the CIA, or two or more of those groups working in concert. They are also responsible for the popularity of the movie Saturday Night Fever. If you think you have seen it, you're wrong, that memory was planted in your mind, it's not real. Since everyone knows that every American has always and continues to hate Disco, anything that one might find Disco-esque, or even quasi-Disco; must either be redefined and euphemized as something different, or it must be rejected. Michael Jackson's Thriller? Dance music, R & B. Ninety percent of UK exports from the year 1983 to the present? Dance, Trance, Pants, WhateverTF you want to call it, just don't call it Disco. Britney Aguilera, Kylie Minogue, Spice Girls Aloud, Destiny's Chris Brown, Madge, Usher Timberlake; it's all dance/party/R & B/Pop - no Disco here.
All joking aside, Disco was, is, and will continue to be popular, and even its most vehement detractors have at least one Disco song that they not only like - they frickin adore it, even if they would rather be caught dead hanging from a rope with their johnson in their hand than admit it. Throw out some song names and soon they start dropping their denial like a wireless call in the tunnel. Sheesh, half the people my age have difficulty holding still at just the mention of KC and the Sunshine Band, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it. Throw in not-traditionally-defined-as-Disco Disco songs, and nobody makes the cut.
It really isn't anything to be so ashamed of, it's more sheep mentality than anything else. A tricky peer pressure principle, "That which is popular is denounced by all the real individuals". So, you know, if you really are one of the cool kids you hate anything popular, which will make you popular, which, apparently, is a bad thing, so go figure why someone would want to be popular. My head hurts. The point was supposed to be that Disco is kind of fun, and for kitsch sake or otherwise, people like light-hearted bebopping groove music. Why they are self-loathing about it to the point of denial is a tricky self-deception that most likely remains a mystery even to those that practice it.
Let's face facts, Disco affected everything, and you can blame the sexual revolution, cocaine, Nixon, it doesn't really matter - Disco changed the way people dressed, what they ate, it was omnipresent in its influence. When was the last time you wore your lime green leisure suit to a fondue party? The best illustration however, is how established Rock 'n' Roll acts glommed on to Disco's selling power. The Rolling Stones? Yes, they sold out to corporate sponsorship before the 1980s ended; but they sold away part of their integrity to Disco even longer ago. Tell me "Start Me Up" isn't a Disco song and I'll believe you think that, but you'd be wrong. Rod Stewart? C'mon sugar, let me know. Kiss? Hey, maybe they were made for lovin' you, baby. Van Halen? Summer is here, and the time is indeed right for dancing in the street. A case could be made that ELO wasn't all that far removed from Disco to start with, but really, they jumped in neck deep before it was over. Prince? An androgynous dwarf humping a guitar does not make it funky enough that it isn't Disco. Rick James? A cocaine-fueled sexual predator in thigh-high leather boots is not quite funky enough to make it not Disco. Even the Douchebaggy New Wave music of the early 80s; Culture Club, Duran Duran, all that other crap that we would now call EMO crybaby music - if it wasn't just repackaged Disco I guess I've missed something.
If you want to hate an entire genre of music, Techno is available. Disco music without the soul of real horns and percussion. Ugh.
The point of all this? There is no point, it's rhetorical; it's a rant. If you want to take something away from it, I suppose I would be happy if just one person came away from this embracing their inner Disco Duck. Go to your favorite file-borrowing site, get that one song you let play all the way through when you're alone, but you switch away from with disdain when anyone else is around. You don't have to play it where anyone else can hear it, but you deserve to get some joy out of life - this is not a rehearsal. The rhythm is going to get you, so turn the beat around and celebrate good times. Come on.
-- Baron Von Suckhausen
Sunday, August 24, 2008
So what can the Olympics do to bring me into the fold? After all, it’s all about me, right? Right.
Well, I’ve got two words for you Olympics:
The other word I have for you is “awesome” but I thought putting it up there would distract from the mind-blowing badassery of the word “beercathlon” and I want it noted that I made that word up and it is MINE and if you want to use it you need to ask ME because you will need to give ME money.
Actually, I better search Google before I really say that.
Not only does it return results, the first Web site is actually called Beercathlon.com. At first I’m pissed that some douchebag in the future somehow stole my idea and came back to the past and started this Web site, but I can’t be mad for long, because HOLY SHIT that jerk-off’s a genius!
I enter the Web site, and quickly find that the first official Beercathlon happened in 2005, and it’s been held annually since.
My anger rises again quickly—what the hell is the problem with the IOC? Turns out the beercathlon is not only an established event, it has a fucking governing body! Make the beercathlon an event already, IOC. We sit through the shitfest that is dressage and can’t have a little something for those of us who enjoy competitions that revolve around binge drinking?
The Beercathlon site details rules about nine games ranging from “flip the cup” to “speed beer pong,” all of them aimed at the ultimate goal of getting you as drunk as possible. In the end, the beercathlon seems perfectly suited to the Olympics: it requires strength (of stomach), endurance (whether you can drink a shitload in a short period of time) and wisdom (should I drink this?). It’s high time the IOC recognized the beercathlon for what it is: an event that offers to fuck up competitors more than Tonya Harding. Bonus: no crowbars.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Much like bonzaikittens, I really don't want this to be real. Unlike bonzaikittens, I think it is. Maybe. It's a pretty elaborate website to be a fake, and I didn't think mocking the 232 million incredibly edgy individuals on this planet that still sport a goatee would be that hilarious an idea for a parody product. I really dunno. The website has heaping helpings of stupid, no offense to chinless dorks wearing goatees, of course. Wink. It's just, well, y'know, if you're considering buying a template to keep your facial hair trimmed -- umm, maybe you shouldn't have access to anything as sharp as a razor. Maybe you should find a barber that'll finesse the edges of that mess for you. All nonsense aside, if you are a reasonably stable individual that has become convinced that a goatee is right for you; and you want to shave upwards of 14 seconds off your daily routine -- I highly recommend this item.
Friday, August 15, 2008
I've seen odd stuff. Weird stuff. But I tell you, there's one thing I find most disturbing. See ... I get Real Dolls. I mean, there's been mannequins and there have been sex dolls for a long time. It was only a matter of time until someone put two and two together.
What freaks out my shit is the fact that people eBay used RealDolls. Look folks, it's not like a used car. Unless your car has a vagina. And if it does, I'd like to know that make and model.
Real Doll, that's a monogamous kind of purchase folks. Come on.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
But I'm also the kind of guy who spreads my appreciation for a completely inappropriate dick joke by dressing up a dildo like a super-hero and putting it on the hood of your car in the middle of the night.
Meet the P.P.E - Purple Pussy Eater. That's his name in his regular, every day, do-gooder, clitoral pleasing life. But when he gets pissed off he transmogrifies into a behemoth of vaginal destruction known only as: SplatterPuss!!!!
Yes, this is the kind of shit that makes me giggle.
Okay fits of laughter is more like it.
Alright, gut busting, pant shitting torrents of Hyena like cackles that sends pregnant women into early labor...but come on, the PPE stands nearly nine inches tall and two - three inches in circumference. It was a huge veiny bastard, with balls like stones and it smelled like grape. How can you not find that funny?
My penchant for what some would gallows humor, and others would call the beginning strains of sociopathy, has only been exacerbated by the prominence of this here internets. There has never been a greater hive mind for focusing the sickness of the human condition like the world wide web. And that's why I love it so much; because the never ending supply of smut and filth allows for refinement of the very same subject matter. Take, for example, the case of smut gifts. Smut gifts used to be dirty little things that one carried out of dimly lit stores, canvassed in opaque paper sacks under the cover of darkness. Only to be unwrapped later behind closed doors with a healthy dollup of shame. But these days the ability to purchase a good gag gift is a super power to be touted and proud of. And something that the internet has made inherently easier and more accessible.
Inflatable sheep - easy.
Big Rubber Fist - no problem.
Personally molded, and fuckable, latex casts of your favorite porn stars genitals - I have an autographed collection sitting on the mantle. Proudly displayed like trophy's of my non existant children's accomplishments.
But internet, you've gone too god damned far!
This product of satan is called The Turd Twister. I used to joke, back when I was all pierced up, that one day I was going to get a bunch of piercings around my butthole so I could shit stars like a playdough fun factory but these jokers took all of the pain and piercing out of it and have designed an easily insertable novelty poop accessory. If Ron Popeil were an East German porn fetishist, this would have been on late night infomercials years ago. But not to be out done with only pooping stars these sadomasochists have created eighteen, YES 18, festive rings you can shove up the ole corn chute for any occassion.
there's even a circle...in case you wanna make poop shaped poop
If two girls one cup wasn't enough to make me want to break up with the internet - the fact that they'll make a sequel prominently featuring birthday cake shaped turds is more than enough.
It's over internet.
It's not me.
It's so fucking you.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Secret Eyes will make you look like you just stepped out of the pages of Girls Bravo. Come on, what girl doesn't dream of recreating herself to look like a prepubescent, innocent young girl? And what guy doesn't dream of having one of his own? Just put these contacts in and soon enough, you'll have hundreds of guys with Sailor Moon fetishes knocking at your door.
Go from a used up 25 to "fuck me" fourteen for just 20 bucks!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Here is a description from the site: "Fairies have always been around us. Recently they have ventured out of the forest looking for new places to live. By placing an Enchanted Fairy Door™ in your home or garden you will invite the magical creatures into your home where they are sure to bring good luck!"
So wait a second. You want me to buy a door that actually does the complete opposite of what a door is SUPPOSED to do? Doors are made to keep people from just waltzing into your home like they own the place. But now I'm supposed to buy an enchanted door that actually invites fairies into my home whenever they damn well please? Let's see how much one of these things costs.
Twenty-five fucking dollars. For the price of a case of good beer one of the goddamn doors is supposed to get fairies excited about getting all up in my shit and spreading their fortune everywhere. But it isn't just the door. According to the site that is quickly pissing me off, you have to put candy and shiny things on the doorstep, because fairies like that shit. So now I have a fairy door, no beer, AND I have to put my own stuff out there on the door and believe that, when I wake up and it's gone, some fairy took the shit and not Shady Roger, the bum who lives in the alley behind my house.
Could I get anymore pissed about this site? You bet your ass I can. Because on top of all this, they have the gall to offer free shipping like it's some great treat. You're damn right you better give me free shipping! You're selling me an enchanted fairy door that allows magical creatures to enter and leave my house of their own discretion. You know what else does that? A goddamn hole in the wall, that's what.
In short, fuck Enchanted Fairy Doors.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
About three hours north of This City I Love And Hate is The City That Makes The Rest of Us Scratch Our Heads in Confusion and Mutter About More Money Than Brains. At times, we may even stand with our arms akimbo and wonder aloud about Just What the Hell Is Going On Up There.
Talk to an East-of-the-Cascades lifer about Bend and you may get a response similar to "Sure, it's pretty, but what. the. fuck?" Because, at some point, a parade of Subaru drivers and other upwardly mobile types "discovered" Bend, and then suddenly people were paying $200K for a dilapidated shack at the end of a dirt road. A "quaint ranch house with a lot of privacy. Fixer-upper. Must see to believe!!!!". Sure. I had a Cadillac once with "water-cooled exhaust" and "keyless ignition".
But Bend has a very interesting little real estate development, and it has been all over the news for the last couple of weeks. The Shire.
This is not just weird. It's sublimely ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. And fucking ballzy of the original developer, I must say. Who could resist a Hobbit-Hole for a garden shed? If I had $800K to throw around, you'd be hard-pressed to keep me out of that place, provided the HOA was moderately reasonable.
You will soon have the opportunity to purchase the entire development when it goes to Public Auction in December of 2008.
Be sure and dig into some of the recent backstory about this place. There are rumors of bank hitmen and unusual "deaths" abounding.
The question is, can you buy this on the internet? Technically, yes. You can't, of course, click a PayPal button and be done with it, but you could probably do almost the whole transaction without leaving your desk except to crap once in a while and grab another Red Bull on the way back out.
Friday, August 8, 2008
If you bought one of these crust cutters or have ever even thought it would be a good idea to use one, you have failed at living skills and need to turn in your merit badge for basic survival. In return, you will get your merit badge in "being really fucking lazy." It's called a knife, you can probably find it in your kitchen drawer.
And despite its enticing shape, and despite the fact that it's dishwasher safe, the octodog should NOT be used as a sexual device.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Today I want to talk to you about eating your partner.
God and his only (admitted) son Jesus are partners for all of us and you should partake of them every Wednesday and Sunday. The Fathers will also give private eatings of the Lord if you have been especially naughty, but that honor is reserved for only a select few like that brown-noser Sister Mary Agnes - she hasn't learned to lift her hassock when she kneels for the Fathers so we can all see the evidence of her sins upon her outer garments - Amateur.
Now, where was I...
The Body of the Lord is said to come to us in the form of Communal Wafers, that melt on the tongue and stick to the roof of your mouths for a week. This is so we can taste Jesus just by sliding our tongues slowly around our upper palate and picking the pieces of God from under our dentures.
But can you tell me this? Why does the body of such a perfect vessel such as our Lord God taste like shite? It's like fekking cardboard with some God forsaken lake slime in it to hold it together.
So - I am thinking of starting a petition. The Fathers can bless the Wheat Thins just as easily and our lord will be all crispy, crunchy, wheaty goodness.
That'll pack the seats!
Until Next Time! Go With God!
My wife spent many years in Greece while her dad was stationed there in the Air Force. Something she and her siblings really loved over there was souvlaki. The following is our take on it, somewhat authentic, somewhat modified, all damn good.
The outcome of all of this is a pita wrap, basically.
There are three parts to this: the meat (souvlaki), the sauce (tzatziki), and the pitas.
While the meat is the star of the show, the sauce takes quite a while to prepare and needs to sit for a while to get the proper taste. So, start with this. We like to make A LOT of sauce to eat on the side, so this is a big version. You can pare this down if you don't want so much.
* 32 ounces sour cream (plain yogurt is used in many recipes, but sour cream is more authentic tasting and you don't have to drain it like plain yogurt)
* 6 cucumbers
* 2 tablespoons olive oil
* 1/2 cup lemon juice
* 1 tablespoon dill (mint can be substituted)
* Two whole garlic bulbs
Put the sour cream into a bowl. If it is liquidy (it does happen sometimes, especially if you use light sour cream), you need to drain it. Put some paper towels in the bottom of a strainer put the cream on top, set the strainer on top of a pan, put the in the fridge, and let drain for a couple of hours.
Cucumbers need to be peeled and seeded. You can either finely chop them or grate them. We used to grate them, but have come to prefer them finely chopped.
The garlic needs to be minced. You should get at least 8 cloves worth out of the two bulbs.
Mix this all together, put in fridge, and let it sit overnight. The flavors need this time to blend.
* 1 leg of lamb, cubed (lots of people are also using pork, chicken or beef, or a combination of them, but we have always used lamb)
* 1/4 cup lemon juice
* 1/4 cup red wine (cooking wine's good too)
* 1/4 cup olive oil
* 1 teaspoon paprika
* 1 teaspoon dried oregano
* 1 tablespoon dill (or dried mint)
* 3 cloves garlic, crushed
* Salt and pepper to taste
Cut the lamb into one-inch cubes, trimming as much of the fat off as possible. Put lamb cubes in a large bowl. Set aside.
Whisk all of the other ingredients together and pour over the meat. Massage the marinade into the meat well (get them hands dirty!) and put in the fridge for two to six hours.
When you're ready to cook, fire up the grill (charcoal, preferably). Traditionally, the meat is cooked on the grill on skewers. However, my family has discovered a much easier way of dealing with this. Both of my brothers-in-law are Domino's Pizza managers. Their pizzas are cooked on mesh pizza screens. We have found that the cubed meat cooks perfectly on the grill if you put down one of those mesh pizza screens. I have not yet gone shopping to discover a decent consumer alternative, but I do know that Domino's always has tons of extra screens they would probably get rid of.
Your grill should be at about 350-400 degrees. The meat will cook in about 5 minutes in this case. I suggest setting your oven on about 200 degrees, this way you can put your meat in the oven as you complete it and keep it warm while you get your pita bread ready.
The best luck we've had with Pita bread was the last time we cooked souvlaki -- while on vacation in Redmond, Or. We wound up going to a Greek restaurant in Bend and buying some pitas from them. It was the freshest we've ever been able to get in the States. It's amazing how hard it can be to find decent pitas. Some day we'll start cooking our own.
Anyway, to prepare the pitas, you'll need
* Olive oil
Rub both sides of the pita liberally with olice oil. Sprinkle both sides of the pita with the paprika (liberally) and salt (to taste).
Cook the pitas on the grill. You're not trying to actually get a crust, you just want to warm them up. So, 30 seconds to a minute on each side, tops.
With an open pita, dollop on a liberal amount of the tzatziki sauce. Then drop in a good amount of meat.
Other toppings that go well on the wrap are tomatoes, lettuce and onions. We like to saute onions, but fresh, sliced onions are more traditional.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
For instance, a Jack-in-the-Box Sirloin Burger with Crinkle Cut Fries from Culvers, a Route 44 Limeade from Sonic and then a Dairy Queen something for desert.
Because quite honestly, I love fast food, I just don't like one particular franchise's selection across the board.
What would be your favorite fast food mash? If you could get something from all of your favorite in one spot?
Cross Posted at The Daily Brief.
There's a ton of food programming out there. From Iron Chef to the public access channel where this morbidly obese priest whips up food from heaven, there are more food shows on at any given time than repeats of Law and Order.
I don't watch them all. In fact, I avoid a lot of them. And while I find it interesting that I have no use for any cooking show hosted by a woman, that's another story for another day, the day where I tell you all how I am a misogynist trapped in a woman's body. Today we are just going to focus on the worst thing to happen to food since Bobby Flay: Rachael Ray.
Now, I know what you are thinking. I'm a female. Rachael Ray is a female. Rachael Ray is cute and perky and has bouncy - if small - tits. Therefore, my hatred must be founded in some kind of jealousy. Wrong. I like perky women. I like bouncy tits. I just don't like them on Rachael Ray. Besides, I have much better cleavage than her.
Let's look at all the reasons why Rachel Ray is on my hate list.
1.She comes from Oprah. Nothing good has ever come from Oprah.
2. When I watch her talk, I feel like she's a little kid trapped inside a woman. Like part of her brain never made it past 12. Sometimes I just want to pat her on the head and say "Hah, cute little kid. Now go run and play and let the grownups work in the kitchen."
3. Her cutesy little phrases. EVOO. Delish. This goes along with her 12 year old personality. What irks me most about the stupid phrases is the people who repeat them. Saying "Yum-O" while trying to seduce a national audience into believing you can cook is bad enough, but when some soccer mom in a chain restaurant looks lovingly at her fajitas and says YUMO!, you just want to smack a bitch. Two bitches.
4. She's not a chef. Stop calling her a chef. She's a cook and a mediocre one, at that.
5. The FHM photoshoot. Seriously. I'm not a feminist by any stretch of the imagination, but the whole idea of catering to men who have this idea that women are good for sex and cooking irritates me. Here's this woman who is running a media empire, who is famous for her cooking and she still finds it necessary to pose like this for publicity. Honestly, she doesn't pull it off well, anyhow. She looks like she'd be frigid in bed.
6. I like my food people to have personalities that make me want to eat with them. Even the fat priest on my local cable channel looks like fun. Anthony Bourdain, Andrew Zimmerman - I could definitely hang with them and talk about food all night. Hell, I'd even hang out with that weirdo Alton Brown. But five minutes with Rachael Ray would make me want to drown her in a vat of EVOO.
7. The goofy faces. My god, I want to punch her.
8. Hypocrisy means nothing to her when faced with the opportunity to make more money. She started Yum-O, an organization that tackles childhood obesity and promotes healthy eating to children. Then she signs with Dunkin Donuts. Then again, this is a woman who wants you to spend 20 bucks to put your food scraps in a "garbage bowl" designed by her. You know, instead of just using a plastic freaking bowl you already have in your closet. Or, say, the garbage pail.
9. Her followers. I can only hope the Rachael Ray minions come here and tell me what a loser I am. Those people are legion. They are the mindless throng born of Oprah, the same people who will read one of Oprah's book choices and profess it to be the greatest piece of literature ever, just because their goddess recommended it. They are the same people who think Dr. Phil actually knows what he's talking about. The same people who call Rachael Ray a chef and spend 20 dollars on a garbage bowl. Yea, I'm talking about YOU. Bring it.
In conclusion: I am a better cook than Rachael Ray. I have better cleavage. And I will never say Yum-O! while going down on you.
Found: People who hate Rachael Ray more than I do.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
It's bad enough that they foist that crap upon us but now, in an effort to save money, many airlines are charging extra for meals. As if merely giving it to you wasn't bad enough, they now have the audacity to ask for money for this "food."
I just flew out to Oregon and on my flight from Memphis to Seattle, they provided us with beverages but charged for any food. Pringles? $3 for a small can. A pre-prepared "meal?" More than $6.
I understand that fuel prices hit the airline industry more than many others, but Jeebus people, charging extra cash for the extravagant airline feasts is like shooting yourself in the foot. Just drop the meals all together and make us bring our own stuff to nom.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Poll's on the right, vote for your favorite pie! Will Coconut Creme reign supreme ? Will the Lemon Custard cut the mustard ? And can Peach overtake both Blueberry and Apple ? Your votes will decide!
Must! Stop! Using! Exclamation! Points!
i mean i LOVE food. so much that my fiance is constantly saying to me "honey, you're a good eater." and i am.
i usually eat what's on my plate and what's left on yours. yeah, i'm that girl.
the nice thing is that i've always been basically pretty thin. probably because i'm fairly active. i lived in key west where my bicycle was my mode of transportation. i lived in hollywood where i walked pretty much everywhere until i bought my motorcycle. i lived in austin where i was a meth addict, so no fat there really. and no food either, but that's a story for another day.
so once i got clean i started to pack on a few extra pounds. because, well, i stopped doing drugs. and i started eating. and i wanted to keep eating.
so VERY recently i started to workout. in a gym. ... yeah, i know. i have always been against working out. mostly because it sounds like it would suck. and pretty people do it. and i hate pretty people.
but i didn't want to stop eating. so you see my dilemma. i had to do it. so for 4 weeks i did the elliptical machine and nothing else. most everyday after work. and even when i traveled to see my dad in VA while he got his first surgery i worked out in the hotel gym both days.. IN A HOTEL GYM. ick, now i'm THAT girl.
so i started to lose the extra pounds and everyone was noticing, i was feeling good and still eating what i wanted. like a twice weekly egg custard sno-ball with marshmellow topping. yum. see? i'd rather work-out than change my eating habits. and that's pretty drastic.
but in the past two weeks i've changed my eating habits. i shit you not. i went all organic. i am eating no simple carbs only complex (yeah i had no idea either.) i am eating lots protein and very little fat, tons of vegetables and very little red meat. no caffeine, no butter (yes margarine) no sweets.
wtf? this from a girl who could eat half a carton of oreos before bedtime?
when i quit drugs it was pretty hard. in fact it took me a couple of go-rounds even though drugs were undeniably taking my life.
when i quit cigarettes, it was less hard, believe it or not. i just didn't want to be a smoker anymore. there were three tough days, but other than that it wasn't like what they say. (the trick is that there is never "just one" cigarette.)
when i changed my eating habits overnight it wasn't hard at all. (i got off the caffeine in three days. with one headache. and let me tell you, i was drinking coffee morning noon and night. i know you other alchies and addicts know what i'm taking about)
so how and why did it change? well, it turns out i'm not just eating for me anymore. :)
Sunday, August 3, 2008
I could go on and on about my love of food, I really could, but I should leave some of the praising of food for other people to touch on. I should narrow my focus to a specific food item, or something. Yeah, that sounds good, so that is what I'll do.
My favorite food. Well, first of all, without a doubt, no contest, my favorite food item is cheese. I need to get that out of the way. Whatever I blathered on about previously concerning my affection for food; double that for cheese. And I don't play favorites with cheeses, I love them all. Aside from 'cottage' cheese, which is some sort of curds and whey prank based on a nursery rhyme. That's the great thing about cheese; there are hundreds of different varieties, you can't get bored with cheese. I like the sharp stuff, the mellow stuff, the stuff so runny you need a spoon, the stuff so hard you can only grate it or chip it, the stuff that is more mold than dairy, even the stuff that is more pasteurized processed product than cheese. I could be a vegan if they allowed cheese, heck, I could live on cheese alone if my bowels would continue to operate correctly on that diet. My point is, I am quite fond of cheese.
My favorite food right now is a sandwich (sammich) that I helped design with a loved one, quite by accident one day last month. We were having a light lunch, toasted brie and tomato sandwiches (sammiches) to be more precise. It was a lazy weekend day, so we had pretty much just gone from breakfast to laying about until we were peckish and decided to have some lunch. After braving the hazards of Lovey's precariously balanced pantry to retrieve her folding griddle thingy, I watched as she put the first brie and tomato sandwich (sammich) on. I noticed that there was a half an avocado from breakfast lying on the counter, and suggested that she add that to the second sandwich (sammich) which she was about to start cooking. As we sat on her couch, she had given me the one with the avocado, I offered her a bite. We both agreed, it was really a great sandwich (sammich). I insisted she trade other halves with me so that we would both have half a good sandwich (sammich) and half a great one. I tried to make this sandwich (sammich) once I returned to the drudgery of home, and it wasn't great. It was still pretty good, but I think my choice of brie was a little too soft, I used too much avocado, and I didn't have the awesome fluffy toast that she had at her house.
Speaking of toast, other than cheese; what is better for enjoying than some delicious toast? Oh, sure, there is a case to be made for crackers, and don't get me started on GRAHAM crackers, but there's something so pure and simple about toast. No pretensions, no gaudy embellishments, just good, honest, hard-working, crispified bread. It's the workhorse of the leavened and heated grain products, that's for sure. Oh, let the bagels and croissants scoff from their ivory towers, let the pitas and tortillas flaunt their multitasking abilities, let the ciabatta and focaccia go pronounce themselves; we know the truth, and the truth shall set us free.
Baron Von Suckhausen (writing as Yellowbeard)
Let me tell you about my Zapato steak.
I was once in a Mexican restaurant somewhere, probably in Lomita or Gardena or something, and an item on the menu was Zapato Steak. A zapato is a shoe, for anyone who might wonder. I didn't understand why anyone would want a "shoe steak". Or maybe I missed something somewhere, which is always possible.
And then a couple of months later someone gave me a couple of London Broils to BBQ. So I did, and forgot about them, and I ended up with Zapato steaks of my own. And the neighbors dog wouldn't eat them. The dog that ate its own shit, and the shit of every other living creature in the neighborhood, wouldn't eat these steaks.
Did I mention *Allegany Decadence? It's brown too, so I remembered it when I was thinking about shit.
What you need, first and foremost, is a motherfucker of a hangover. Chocolate graham crackers, some of that chocolate cream cheese cake frosting by.. Duncan Hines or whoever makes it. A fifth-bottle of Carolan's. Make some coffee.
When the coffee is done, pour it and all the Carolan's into whatever container you find will hold it all. Take your container of booze, your frosting and your graham crackers out onto the porch/lanai/balcony and get a head start on the day. You can even scoop the frosting onto the graham crackers and eat the graham crackers and frosting together. That's the bonus of Allegany Decadence.
*Allegany in Oregon. Not Allegheny, PA. I did not spell it wrong so cram it.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Clearly, this was going to be an uncomfortable stare down over the check-scanner. The local Kroger checkout people, however, are pretty professional - head and shoulders above what I could expect at the local H.E.B. in San Antonio where I grew up. Odds were good, then, that I wouldn't actually receive any comments on my list. A dreadful little weasel of a thought poked his head up over the ramparts of my brain. If this won't make them say something... what will? How far will I have to go?
Intrigued, I enlisted help from the Temple Of Suck staff. In a true testament to how little each of us has to do on a Monday afternoon, it was about 90 seconds before I had a full shopping list guaran-damn-teed to make Dayshift-Checkout-Guy unable to restrain himself.
I strapped on my big-boy pants and hopped in the car. A short drive later and I nearly ran over a woman so fat her knees kept kicking her belly as she hobbled across the street on her cane. I hate grocery stores in day time.
I parked, walked in and shopped, poker face firmly planted. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get PIE nor WHISKEY & ROPE; the former because the bakery was conspiring against me and the latter because I have the misfortune to live in a semi-dry county. BEER OR WINE & ROPE just didn't have the same zing to it.
The checker was robotic, and didn't even crack a smile. "Josh", bless him, had the will of a robot. Or maybe just the poker face of a robot. Either way, I got nothing.
Today I learned two things: (1) it takes a lot more than vaguely suggestive items on a shopping cart to make the local high school kids crack and (2) for all your bondage bestiality rape needs, always go with Scotch brand Packing Tape.
I have recurring back pain. Last year it was a bulging disc (also slipped or herniated disc, but I like to say bulging). I figured this time around it was going to be the same thing. It sure felt similar. But I was wrong. This time it was a messed up sacroiliac joint. Appears the joint on my left side doesn’t line up right. The practical upshot of this is that I get to take a pretty neat muscle relaxers and pain killers for a couple of weeks.
That’s pretty much it. Back pain is not fun. But I am heading off to Redmond, Oregon, Tuesday night to hang out at my sister-in-law’s house for a few days. My wife’s been out there for a few days already and got to have some fun white-water rafting. Not sure if I’m jealous given my current state of back-suckitude. However, I am certainly jealous of the time off.
Hope you all had a better weekend than me.
Crossposted at Half a Pica Distance.