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Friday, June 13, 2014

Muffin Law MCCCLXXXVII




So, my mother came by and she was making wonderful blueberry muffins, which basically smelled like what I imagine showering with the LORD would smell like. (Don't make it weird; I just need an analogy of awesomeness. Besides, the Weird is about to happen.)

So I was trying to compliment how amazing it smelled in the house, and I told her that her fresh out-of-the-oven muffins smelled "better than a fifteen-year old Vietnamese virgin." 

She laughed, but then a second later the full impact of my comparison hit her and she exclaimed: "Not funny!" 

But it was too late. She had laughed, and by the Ancient Code of the Muffin Society (specifically the 13th volume, 80th chapter and 7th verse) once my mother laughed, my outlandish and borderline illegal analogy was rendered accepted and most importantly: no Muffin Censure would come to my name. 

Rules is rules, yo. 



Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Ultimate Warrior





“Every man’s heart one day beats its final beat. His lungs breathe a final breath. And if what that man did in his life makes the blood pulse through the body of others, and makes them bleed deeper and something larger than life, then his essence, his spirit, will be immortalized. By the storytellers, by the loyalty, by the memory of those who honor him and make the running the man did live forever. You, you, you, you, you, you are the legend-makers of Ultimate Warrior.”  

- James Hellwig, aka The Ultimate Warrior, on Monday Night RAW, one day before suddenly collapsing and dying while walking with his wife at the age of 54. I will never forget the Wrestlemania he beat Hulk Hogan. R.I.P.

Saturday, March 03, 2012

You Know How?.....I Hate That




You know when you're watching a show, and then it goes to commercial, so you flip to another channel, but that show is on commercial, and you don't really pay attention, and lose track, and you're sitting there waiting and waiting for the commercials to end, and then it goes back to the show, but it's that OTHER show that you were only "break watching" (watching on commercial breaks), and NOT the show you were actually watching, and you flip back over to the show you were ACTUALLY watching, except you're so flustered that you mis-hit the buttons, and then trying to fix it you screw it up again, and you finally get back to your show, and of course it's clearly been on awhile and you have no way of knowing, and it goes BACK to commercials in like only four minutes, which means you missed a ton?

I hate that.

Sunday, February 05, 2012

The Joy of American Cooking




I was IMing my sister when the food tray arrived, and space requirements necessitated putting the computer aside for a time, so that I might tuck in to the culinary wonders brought to me.

Breakfast's usual disappointing suspects (flubbery gristle trying out for a part as a sausage patty) and a waffle (somehow both burnt and under-cooked soggy simultaneously) were long forgotten. For did I not spy with my little eye a chicken-fried steak patty? (A troubling omission was the non-appearance of sawmill gravy, or gravy of any kind, but I rationalized this as explainable because I'm sure gravy is verboten in a place like this.) The chicken-fried steak guess was later down-graded to a fried pork chop, which was not as exciting, but this was semantics, as all that really changed was my perspective, not the fact that there was every chance that I had meat before me, and breaded and fried at that.

And if that wasn't enough, no amount of squinting in the world could make the other item not be a baked potato. Yeah! Impossible to screw that up, right? Again, the warning omens: besides a nondescript tub of sour cream that I handed back wordlessly there was no cheese or bacon or any toppings. I comforted myself with the thought that I could use the small dab of spread that clung to its plastic and paper-lidded aperture on top of the individually wrapped white bread slice - and while that may not have been slathering my potato in butter, beggars can't be choosers, and it was still a potentially rare treat.

AND THERE WAS PIE!

I told my sister I would IM her after I ate to tell her about the meal. Having finished my description, I discovered it was considerably longer than an IM-message length restriction, although I couldn't understand why, as it was only a few sentences. Nonetheless, I decided to reprint it here, on the off-chance you might get a kick out of it too. I present: Lunch.






The fried porkchop was so overcooked that I LITERALLY broke my fork trying to cut it. The baked potato was so dry I was tempted to hook it up an I.V. The less said about the vegetable mush the better. The fruit punch was (I suspect) concocted with water, massive amounts of red food coloring, and one fruit-punch Lifesaver per gallon of water. I'm guessing whoever made it had half a pack of Lifesavers stuck in his pocket and just threw it in, in order to take home the giant fruit-punch flavor crystal packet he was supposed to use. (Perhaps it's his turn to bring snacks tonight to his twin 8-year olds' basketball game. Score for him!)
Even the pie, while inoffensively sugary, was a no-effort-whatsoever amalgam of bone-dry crust, whipped "cream" that made utterly no pretense to attempt the least evocation of dairy or frothed air, and industrial-grade pudding-pie filling that (and this is just a guess) was supposed to replicate (in some universe) the flavor of coconut (I make this guess only because the filling was vaguely brown-yellowish, and could not possibly have been trying to imitate banana or vanilla or lemon, three pie flavors I'm sure they could easily equally screw up but are so simple to fake the smallest approximation that it boggles the mind they wouldn't have done that), and also because there were these light brown smudges on top of the cream that were intended to be (snickering) toasted coconut. They looked more like the vestiges of that cookie decoration kit you got six years ago that came with "candy" sprinkles but you never ended up using them because the decorations were so tasteless and now the kit sits half-opened in your spice cupboard, stuck up back behind the three-year old bouillon cube jar (which you never use because stock on a box is so much simpler) and the potpourri cooking herbs that came with that one gift basket from your aunt that you never knew how to use in cooking, and also that one packet of something that you're not even sure what it is because there is no label on it, and God only knows why you didn't just throw the kit away but in the back of your mind you had this idea that you might one day be pulled into emergency cupcake duty for a band of rowdy kids, so the sprinkles and the licorice dots and the factory-toasted coconut all sit up there in their boxes and it is this last item that looks like it was shaken over the pie pieces, right before they were all individually smushed with plastic wrap, waiting to be hazily gummed and sucked in toothless ennui by some poor guy running out the clock on a ventilator who won't remember ten minutes from now that he even had "pie," (and I finger quote), let alone what "flavor it was and...where was I going with all this? 
Oh yeah: lunch sucked. I'm not complaining mind you, just describing. In fact, I took a certain pleasure in discovering just how gaw-dawful it was, and at the end of the day, if our food can distract us, even for a few minutes, from the other other unspeakable realities, it may not be sustenance or nutrient infusion the dietitians envisioned when they sat down 18 months ago to craft the strategy for today's well-balanced monstrosity, but at least it's something. 






Note: The pie at the top is just some random piece I found on Google. I didn't think to take a picture of it. It didn't actually look bad at all. As for the tray, that's the actual scene of the crime, so to speak. All I have is my laptop webcam, so the picture quality is pedestrian, and it seems almost innocent just sitting there, no different from any of ten thousand done meals across the land. True enough: it's very hard to convey it in pictures. But at least take a second look at that fork!


Saturday, December 10, 2011

Wishlist



Not that I need presents, but many people want to give them to me, both because of my Future Emperorship (excellent idea, sucking up), and my overall kickassian ways.

I have an Amazon Wishlist - which you can use for ideas.

OR,

if you pick something off the wishlist - it will actually send it to me, and I have it set up so that it won't tell me, either, it will be a surprise.

OR,

You can always bake me cookies and send them (and other presents) to the address listed on the Amazon Wish List. I ain't scrrd of you - but if you stalk me, best be aware, I have a Legion, and they're armed.

Here is my AMAZON WISHLIST.

PLUS,

For those who are on hard times, I have a separate Wishlist made of items all under $15. Feel free to use that one, too.

I update these wishlists every time I run into something new, so feel free to check back and send presents often!

And if you're just not into the Christmas thing, remember - my birthday is December 31st. I KNOW you want to get me something for that, right?

As for the picture above, you may wonder what it is I wanted there. Did you see the awesome table???

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Daffy Duck, Troubadour



It hasn't been the best Fall TV season; in fact, it's been one of the worst in recent memory. But one of the bright spots is The Looney Turnes Show, a crazy attempt to take the Looney Tunes characters and put them in a Sitcom.

I'll let you think about that for a minute.

[eating carrot in nonchalant way while waiting, not unlike a certain cool-as-hell Bunny....]

Sounds crazy, right?

Somehow it works - and if you had any love for Buggs and crew I recommend it whole-heartily. (new episodes are on Cartoon Network Tuesdays at 8, but they rerun the episodes all the time, so just check for it).

One of the biggest revelations has been Daffy Duck. I never realized with a sociopath he is. All the Looney Tunes characters have mental health issues (I'm working on a list of them for a column), but Daffy takes the cake. his pathological narcissism is so all-encompassing it's almost inspiring.

Which makes what happened on tonight's episode all the more fascinating.


One of the really cool things the Looney Tunes Show does is 1 minute music videos as they are going to commercial. The songs are sung by various Looney Tunes characters but are not necessarily related to the plot of that week's episode.


So, last night the video section had Porky Pig asking how you know you're in love.  Daffy Duck  supplies the answer, singing a ballad while playing the piano.

I can't tell you how strange this is.  After all the episodes of Daffy totally focused inward - to hear him tenderly explain Love was....well, it was something.

The song starts off slowly and then gets brisker as the lyrics get ever more...bizarre.  I would much rather show you the video, but I have been unable to find it anywhere. (Even finding the lyrics was impossible. I had to write them down myself while listening to the song - which took endless rewinding and pausing - and then like 9 kinds of idiot I didn't save the notepad document and my computer crashed shortly thereafter. It took me forever to track them down again, as by then I had deleted the episode.)

Anyway, I don't have the video, so you'll have to bear with me.  The Song is funny enough that you should get the jist of it.

The crazy part - as bugnutz insane as this song is - Daffy essentially gets it right.  This IS what being in love is like. [Some of my spelling is off because I have tried to re-create how Daffy draws out the words.





"That's How You Know You're In Love"
(Written and performed by Daffy Duck and uknown background singer(s))

[slowly, Daffy at the piano, half singing, half talking, the way lounge singers sometimes do - and Porky standing right next to him]

How do you know when you're in love?
Well, you came to the right frie-end. 
Love is like an ice cream sundae - 
That you think is never gonna eh--ennd. 
Love make you feel all ting---gell-ly, light-headed and pretty, 
Just like a.....700-foot robot that's invading a city....

[aside - spoken]
Porky: uh, uh...Robot?
Daffy: Exactly

[uptempo]
But you're not an evil robot -
You're a robot looking for love. 
But there's not a lot of giant 700 foot robots around....to love. 
So you glue a bunch of smaller robots together 
And make one big super robot, 
And you and your robot go out to brunch, 
And by the end of brunch you're in love. 
Trust me, that's exactly what it's like to be in love.


Then you and your robot lover destroy the entire Schenectady Turnpike, 
'Cause you're doing a robot love-dance and you don't care what it looks like. 
And when the armies of the world come to fight you, you get into your spaceship, 
And you tenderly embrace while you fly into space, 
'cause Earth's not ready for your giant robot love. 

That's how you know you're love.
[unknown voice] (Find yourself a robot to love)
That's how you feel when you're in love.

[at this point Porky and Daffy have some back-and-forth that I didn't get copied down. Basically Porky can't understand what Daffy is trying to say, so Daffy offers a completely different helpful analogy.]

It's just like you're merman, that's 700 feet tall, 
And you're looking for a lady merman, to love.



[aside - spoken]
Porky: Don't you mean Mermaid?
Daffy: Don't interrupt



But the ocean is a massive place, 
And there's not a lot of lady mermen, 
So in order to increase your chances 
You travel to the Undersea Merman Mall
That's where fish and mollusks go to find love. 
And you find a female merman who is working at a kiosk
Selling cellphone covers and personalized key chains. 
Your hand brushes one of her tentacles and she just melts inside.
The manager gets insanely jealous 
And stabs you with his trident and you're dead. 
[unknown voice] (Stabs you with his trident and you're dead.)
That's how you know you're in loooooooove!


Daffy - who knew!  Every once in awhile, he just gets it.  As crazy as this song sounds - that's exactly what it's like!!!




UPDATE!

November 19

I finally found the video so you can watch it for yourself!  I did a good job of describing, if I do't say so myself. 











Wednesday, November 02, 2011

If it's a bluff

If it's a bluff it's a damn good bluff, and should be awarded credit. But what if it's not? There's no way to bring it up without showing weakness myself, if I'm wrong. I'll figure out a way. And if not, well, that's when you take out the big stick and head back into the jungle. 

Monday, October 17, 2011

Imagine Herman Cain

[The following has nothing to do with politics in a traditional sense, either mine, yours or Mr. Cain's. It's more about how people make major decisions in their lives.]








Herman Cain is a great story, but we all know he will not get the nomination, let alone the presidency. He will never fit the mold of expected conventionality the way Perry, Romney, or even Obama does.


It's too bad for Cain's sake that he does not have someone with once-in-a-generation bravery and imagination working for him, because the video below - back when Cain worked for the pizza industry, is goofy, inoffensive, and funny, but more than that, holds the one small sliver of out-of-the-box thinking that might get Cain to "stick" in people's minds the way that is necessary to get elected in the new world.


I am telling you with 100% sincerity that Herman Cain should start singing at all his campaign appearances. It would defy everything we know. It would make him a laughingstock, a source of constant late-night derision, angst and troubling echoes to a sordid racially charged past for American Entertainment and politics.


And it just might make Herman Cain the next president.


I know, you don't agree with me. I barely agree with me, and I'm a genius.  It's so counter-intuitive that it's almost impossible to wrap your head around.


People, the president is not your Mommy. He's not your Daddy, though that's what people seem to think, what they hope for. The president has never had the control over the Economy that people think. Read the Constitution: it's not even in his job description.


If the past 20 years have taught us nothing else - and they haven't - it's that the president cannot solve your problems, no matter how much you want him to. At some point people will grasp this on an unconscious level, even if they do not agree.


So what does that leave?


In the modern world, people need their president to give them something else, something different, not forced down their throats on the advice of marketing experts, but a part of who they are, a part that sticks out, gives people something else to think about. This is why the myriad low-grade controversies that followed Clinton actually helped him, they made him memorable and interesting. People don't want to consider the idea that they pick their president in the same way that they pick what to watch on Thursday Night TV, but they do.


Whatever politics and priorities a candidate says he has change once he becomes president, and is forced to deal with the reality, not the theory of his lofty goals. Whatever is left gets compromised - sometimes out of recognition, with his opponents, with the changing needs of the country and public zeitgeist, and that which does get put into Law never acts according to how it was drawn up.


In other words, the practical, real-world relationship a person has with their president is by far most influenced by the quality of the four-year reality show that the modern presidency is. The jokes. The family. The controversies. The scandals. The Fashion. The president's hobbies, his hopes, his tone of voice. How he ages in front of us, how he handles the big moments, how he handles disappointment, how he is able to surprise us, stir us, and simply stay on our minds.


Herman Cain could be that man. He won't do it and who could blame him? He wants what every candidate wants, to be taken seriously. No one running for president, particularly an African American, wants to be seen as a sideshow, Tonight's Entertainment.


But ironically, whether they admit it or not, that's what people are looking for. Imagine that.








Lyrics to Herman Cain's Pizza Beatles montage:


Imagine there's no pizza
I couldn't if I tried
Eating only tacos
Or Kentucky Fried
Imagine only burgers
It's frightening and sad


You're lucky you have pizza
To feed for kids for you
Only frosting or cookies
And no dishes you must do
Imagine eating pizza
Each and every day


You may say that it's junk food
But to me it's so much more
It gives my life its meaning
And it makes a lot of dough


Imagine mozzarella
Anchovies on the side
And maybe, pepperoni
Rounds out your pizza pie
Imagine getting pizza
Delivered to your door


You don't have to give up now
On my skateboard I will go
I'll be back in 30 minutes
I just bought Dominoes


All I am saying
Is give pizza a chance
All I am saying
Give pizza a chance!
All I am saying
Is give pizza a chance
All I am saying
You've got to, got to give pizza a chance!

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

3rd String Humor





This is excerpted from a post on my Fantasy Football Message Board, the only place I write anything anymore, it would seem. In a few places I have added end-notes to explain what would otherwise be lost out-of-context.





Cletus [someone in the League: all names have been changed] has a friend named Ponyboy, whom I'm convinced Cletus keeps around for the sole contingency of one day needing someone to frame for Murder.

A few years  ago Cletus fiendishly engineered the events of my life to lead to a point where I was forced to spend a large amount of time with Ponyboy, in what I can only figure was scientific experiment to see how far someone (me) could be pushhed before snapping and going on a 12-state killing spree.

But that's a story for another day. The reason Ponyboy sprang to mind vis a vis this debate(*1) is the one funny moment I ever experienced around Ponyboy (at least the one funny moment that didn't involve him getting hustled for $400 by a long-in-the-tooth stripper and then asking for a partial refund when he proved unable to achieve full tumescence, but I digress), involved his basketball career.

He told me that in Middle School he'd been on the basketball team and was a few rungs below a Cullen Brother(*2)  on the Ability Ladder. (Don't try to picture this metaphorical ladder. M.C. Escher would drive himself mad trying to create it.)

Ponyboy's coach was one of those overbearing redfaced glory-of-war types (somewhere Bear is thinking, "I bet HE wouldn't care about a thousand dollars on the line in his fantasy league!"(*3)) who took the games very seriously.  The coach had nothing but antipathy for his less-than-skilled players, and if you remember back to your Middle School Days (which in the case of Papa Akers might necessitate a rotogravure(*4)), you will recall that there were very few "athletes' who had developed much skill.

Consequently, the Coach loathed everyone but his starters (and even then, his feelings about his starting Center were akin to those of a man whose daughter is dating a line cook from Applebees, but "only until his band Redheaded Stepmonkey(*5) gets signed to a record deal which they totally will because they are so amazing, Daddy, you should hear them I bet you would really like them!"). Coach had little or no use for his second team, and would derisively call them "The Pylons" - a tribute to their inability to move on Defense (or Offense, or out of a huddle, for that matter); a clever name that would in no way stick to an unimpressionable hard-as-nails seventh grader.(*6)

Ponyboy, as he told me, was in the third-string, a motley bunch with the collective skil level considerably below even the second team.

One might imagine the self-esteem of a Girls Gone Wild Reunion Tour(*7), but Ponyboy confided this wasn't the case. The boys knew they were bad, and in all likelihood did not really want to play, and were only doing so to please a father, etc. And where the Coach needled the second team relentlessly, he at least had the action-plan that perhaps the second-stringers would be motivated by his mockery and become better players. But the coach saw the third string as so far beneath even the second-stringers that he wouldn't even spare them the energy of a withering glare. As far as the coach was concerned they didn't exist, which suited them just fine.

Ponyboy told me that the 3rd string had even developed a gallows humor cameraderie of sorts.  The second string was so bad (according to the Coach) that they were The Pylons - what did that make the 3rd string?  The name they develped for themselves was "The Pylons' Replacements."

As much as I hated that man, you gotta admit, that's pretty damn funny.




Notes
*1 I cut all that out; you couldn't possibly care about it; involved the morality of benching a player on Monday Night if you already had your week's match-up won and didn't want to risk negative points.


*2 Not the Vampire family, although now that I've renamed them for anonymity's sake, I wish we DID call them the Cullen Brothers


*3 This refers to the cut-our morality debate

*4  I was trying to use a reference that would jokingly call him old (he's the oldest guy in our league, being the commissioner's father), but I didn't do a great job there.

*5 Redheaded Stepmonkey would make a really great band name.

*6  This is sarcasm, in case you're totally lost by my random writing stylingz, or are Australian and genetically incapable of understanding it.

*7 If you can't figure out why the girls in Girls Gone Wild videos likely have low self-esteem then you're probably stupid. Send me a picture of yourself topless and I will help you feel smart and good about yourself. (Offer does not apply to dudes, Cletus.)


Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Giant Weasel





I am NOT a weasel, but if I Was a weasel, I would be a Giant Weasel, as opposed to a tiny weasel.  Why? 




One should never trust the lesser of two weasels.