Daily dose of disgusting

You know, I read "The Tale of Desperaux," and I don't remember anything about him being ugly as fuck.

Is This Racism? (a play in one act)

[Setting: a crowded aisle in Trader Joe's, Brooklyn. SARAH is studying the particularly extensive selection of dried fruits. She is clearly a customer, as evinced by her civilian clothing and the basket half-full of affordable organic goods in her arms. Several feet away, a WOMAN spots SARAH in the crowd, and begins to push toward her. SARAH looks up.]

WOMAN: Excuse me, do you know where the ramen noodles are in this store?

SARAH: Uh...no, I don't. Sorry.

WOMAN: Oh, ok. (Walks away)

[Curtain]

wedding reception small talk

Man: Are you a relative of Joan or Rob?
Woman: No. College friend, actually.
Man: Ah. I’m at Rob’s firm. They look good together, huh?
Woman: They sure do.
Man: I didn’t know Rob could dance.
Woman: No one did.
Man: Are you married?
Woman: You mean legally? Or, am I emotionally and physically committed to someone?
Man: Uh, either, I guess.
Woman: Then yes, I am.
Man: Oh. Which is it?
Woman: Does it matter?
Man: Well, it seems to matter to you.
Woman: It does matter to me and it shouldn’t to you, but I’ll tell you anyway: the latter.
Man: The latter.
Woman: Yes. Have you been paying attention?
Man: Of course.
Woman: So we understand each other.
Man: I guess.
(PAUSE)
Man: So, wait—can I ask you out?
Woman: That depends. Are you a smarmy douchebag?
Man: Well, yes.
Woman: Then, by all means, do proceed.
Man: Can I call you som—
Woman: No, sorry. I’m married.

That was helpful

Life Imitates Art*

Two politics-related, hard to believe facts:

1) Barack Obama's speechwriter is named Jon Favreau.

2) Al Franken may soon be a United States Senator.


* Note: the works of Messrs. Favreau and Franken might not be considered art.

For those of you without cable...

project runway finale analysis

Leann's collection = pringles

another reason why I like Obama

He numbers his argument points, like Erast Fandorin.

dvds I watched recently: 2 second reviews based solely on emotional response

1.) Iron Man - Trying to enjoy, but very distracted by the facial hair.

2.) Buena Vista Social Club - Cubans = awesome. Ry Cooder = the big suck.

3.) Sex and the City - No emotional response. Only emptiness.

(author's note: A fellow contributor had pointed out that I had mistakenly referred to point 3 as "Sex IN the City." According to him, Sex in the City sounds like an entirely different kind of movie - one that he would more likely enjoy.)

The Happiest Place on Earth

On an unassuming, otherwise unremarkable street in downtown Milwaukee sits a cozy cafe-bar called Comet. The menu is extensive and includes a funkified list of sandwiches; my favorite, "The Leghorn" ($7.50), is an inspired combination of pulled chicken, red onion, cream cheese, tomato, cucumber, and peach jelly between two slices of multi-grain toast. Given the overwhelming preponderance of bead/hemp necklaces and long-underwear-sleeves-beneath-black-t-shirts in the place, meat-substitute options abound. Of these, the deep-fried vegan ribs ($9.50 full order/$6.50 half) are probably the most perplexing option, though the vegan Salisbury steak ($10) is a close second. By day, young alterna-midwesterners nestle in mismatched booths, clutch thick mugs of coffee with both hands and peruse the latest Onion headlines. By night, a red neon sign above the bar which reads "the club is open" illuminates the array of porcelain and stuffed animals that perch whimsically on the wooden shelf beneath it. To be sure, the tousled, affectionately angsty Milwaukeeans lining the bar recognize this line from the Guided by Voices' album "Alien Lanes."

But I stray. As is common practice for great bars nationwide, Comet boasts daily bar specials which are scrawled in multicolored chalk on a board hung by the kitchen. I've gone to Comet upon each return visit to Milwaukee since 2004, and these specials have never changed. Monday's special is $2 PBRs; Tuesday's is $3 Classic Cocktails. But my absolute favorite, and the inspiration for this post, is the Sunday night special: Free basket of bacon with $2.50 bar purchase.

Let's dissect that.
1. $2.50 purchase. In New York, I spend $2.50 at a bar just looking at the bartender. Asking for a glass of tap water costs me at least $5. So the $2.50 requirement here is pret-ty spectacular.
1. Free basket of bacon. This is not the cheap, 95% fat bacon you buy at Key Foods-- this is the crispy, thick-cut stuff that looks like it was hacked off the loin with a chisel. And it's not one piece, not a couple, but an entire basket. Free. Basket. Free. Gratis. Everybody got that?

Now let's all take a trip to Milwaukee. We can stay with my mom.

(N.B.: I partook in this special one night with my old friend Chris several years ago. We drank martinis and devoured the bacon with our hands till all that remained was the grease-transparent wax paper lining the basket. I went home and slept soundly, but Chris claims the vodka-pork product combination gave him nightmares. Small price to pay, I say.)

SNL Thoughts

"Are we human / Or are we dancer?" -
Bird Feather Epaulets +
Anne Hathaway +++

doctor visit

Mr. Jansky, I have reviewed your medical history and what I must admit is a baffling array of gastrointestinal symptoms. I see you also have a history of cyclical depression—fascinating!—as well as a possible genetic predisposition to porphyria. How strange. Well anyway, it is my professional opinion that there is a tiny unicorn living in your colon, poking holes in your intestinal lining. This explains a lot, of course! That poor creature is sending negative vibes throughout your entire body, causing your general depression. I mean, who wouldn’t be grumpy at being trapped in someone’s colon? Ha! Plus it explains all of the blood. As soon as it is removed I’m sure that you will start to feel much better! Of course, we’ll have to make sure that we get to it before it reaches its rapid-growth phase into full maturity.

In light of this, I’ve scheduled you for the procedure tomorrow morning. Our regular unicorn-removal specialist is away on vacation in Fiji, but fortunately for you we have a visiting professional to take her place! He’s quite famous, actually, so you may have heard of him. He is Dr. Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and… I’m sorry? Oh, ha ha! You’re right, Mr. Jansky, I guess I don’t mean “Doctor” in the medical sense—more in an academic one, such as a Ph.D or some such. I mean, Rubeus is an instructor at a venerable magical academic institution—I’m sure that he has some sort of degree hanging on the wall of his yard hut! Of course, this hospital is very conscientious about the quality of specialists that it employs, and he is the most qualified expert in magical creatures that we know. I mean, we wouldn’t send just anyone into your colon to retrieve a unicorn!

This brings me to my next point: Dr. Hagrid is what we would call “old school”—that is, he prefers a very hands-on approach. Now, it took some doing, but we finally found a diving suit large enough to accommodate his half-giant physique. (Isn’t eBay amazing?) However, unfortunately our Miniaturization Machine is out of service and the microtechnologist who usually maintains it has disappeared. But don’t worry! We’re still on for tomorrow. We’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way—with the Wedge and a little elbow grease… Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not as bad as it sounds! It’s more like a shoe-horn, really… Magic, you say? Well, yes, I suppose magic could be employed to shrink him down to the appropriate size, but unfortunately that procedure is not covered by your HMO. However, do not despair! I have checked your policy and it does cover massive amounts of anesthesia and tranquilizers, so you’ll be all set.

7 a.m. tomorrow, then? Fantastic. Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Jansky!

note to the world

Give me all of your chocolate, and I will let you live.

overheard at the playground: early political leanings

On the swings, two boys (9 or 10 years old).

Boy 1: So is your dog going to have puppies?

Boy 2: No. Our dog's a male.

Boy 1: Oh. Well, your dog can have puppies if he marries a female dog.

(3 seconds of silent swinging)

Boy 1: Even female dogs have to get married first before they can have puppies.

Boy 2: Why do you keep talking about dogs getting married?

Boy 1: Uh. Whatever. Watch me jump!

the secret to North Korea's strength

Paean

I'm not sure this fits in with the tone of the blog, but ... Eli Manning is a god to me. I'd like to bear his children, if it were biologically feasible.

Farewell note

This is my apartment...

There's a guy who stands in our hallway, smoking weed, and it blows into our apartment. Some people sit on our stoop for 8 hours a day, and they get annoyed when they have to get up to let me by.

This is my apartment...

There's significant water damage. The ceiling in the bathroom has partially collapsed. I showed it to the super, and he didn't care. I called the management office, and they didn't care. Now there's new water damage in the hallway. It might be related to the mysterious brown water that occasionally leaks from the hole where our smoke detector is supposed to be. We've never had a smoke detector here.

This is my apartment...

People drop soiled food containers into the alley. Our window is right above the resulting midden heap. Fruit flies land on me while I watch television.

This is my apartment...

Mice no longer fear humans here. They fight each other in the middle of the floor. They're either settling their territory disputes, or they're trying to decide which one gets to lick our mouths while we sleep. Flicking the lights on and off doesn't make them stop.

This is my apartment...

for one more GODDAMN DAY

fill in the _____

Surfing channels is super easy when using the channel guide. And the limited show title space allows our imaginations to run riot.

The Jewish People: A Story of ________

Egypt's Ten Greatest ________

Catholicism o' ________

My Sexy Mu________

Beavers All A________

why I am intimidated by beets

1. they cause dark red stools, often mistaken for blood.

why I am intimidated by beets

1.) color
2.) texture
3.) smell
4.) profuse bleeding when pierced
5.) superfood status

Affirmation

Maybe I can write for Saturday Night Live.

Various things I did today.

1. Drank a double-shot soy latte from Starbucks.
2. Fell asleep on the subway.
3. Forgot my umbrella.
4. Reduced a prolapsed uterus.
5. Ate a semi-bland lamb couscous, improved upon adding salt.

The precise moment she stopped loving me

[CHOMP]

[chew chew chew chewchewchewchewchewchewchew chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew...chew]

[SWALLOW]

[BITE]

[chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew]

[SWALLOW]

Did you read this article about Obama? He’s blah blah blah blahblahblahblahblahblah…

[CHOMP]

[chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew]

[WIPE MUSTARD FROM MOUTH WITH BACK OF HAND]

… mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble …

[SWALLOW]

… but he never blah blah blahblahblahblahblahblah blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah

[BITE]

[chewchewchew...chew...chew]

What?

[chew chew chew … chew chew … chew]

Is there something on my face?

[chew chew chewchewchew]

[SWALLOW]

What are you typing?

Official Notification to the Residents of Apartment #9:

A retroactive breakfast tax has been levied, effective as of August 1, 2008.

All inhabitants, save the Resident Collection Agent, will be taxed a percentage (to be determined on a daily basis) of the following breakfast items:

Crispy flakes (whole grain or otherwise)

Granola bits

Blueberries (or other fruit)

Cereal milk

Buttered toast

Pancakes

Miscellaneous

In paying the breakfast tax, residents should attend to the following procedures and regulations:

1) The breakfast tax will only be collected AFTER the Agent has finished his requisite oatmeal and yogurt.

2) The Agent must be seated upon the lap of Resident B. Substitutions will not be tolerated.

3) Residents must make their deposits in a regular, orderly manner, at the pace required by the Agent. Residents must not be distracted by their own pursuits during the tax collection period, as this may disrupt the flow.

4) The tax amount will be determined by the Agent, and only the Agent.

IMPORTANT: Deviations from or avoidance of the breakfast tax will not be tolerated under any circumstance. Penalties for doing so will be immediate, relentless, and very, very loud.


Resident B & The Resident Collection Agent

Words of Advice, Questions of Authority

1. If you mention, casually, in conversation, that you're a standup comedian, you just ruined your ability to amuse me.

2. If you want to know what I really think, give me a shot of whiskey and a beer.

3. If you're out for a walk dressed in all white, go ahead and swing your arms vigorously above your head, it's expected of you!

4. Wait, is that's guy's actual name Tío, or is he just your uncle?

5. If you're going to flirt with the bartendress who's one quarter your age, at least do it quietly.

6. Go ahead and fart whenever you like! It's natural, really.

France and Switzerland swallowed whole by Langoliers

The science world was shocked this morning as the £5 billion Hadron Collider was turned on ripping the fabric of space and time and releasing creatures from another dimension into the European Union.
“It was horrible,” said Hans Volschmay, one of the only survivors of the extra-dimensional attack. “There was an explosion right after we turned on the machine, and suddenly all these creatures came flying into the control room. There was blood everywhere. I watched all my friends have their entrails ripped from their bodies, devoured in front of their eyes, and then torn limb from limb.”
Authorities have announced that the creatures are most likely Langoliers, creatures described only in the Stephen King novella published in 1990. “They were clam like, with large, razor sharp rows of shark teeth,” said Interpol Secretary-General Ronald Noble. “They made a horrible humming noise, and while they didn’t turn Switzerland and France into an awful void of nothingness, they did eat people, cars, machinery, and just about everything else they came in contact with except dirt and rocks.”
EU officials are working frantically to figure out how to deal with the inter-dimensional threat. “Based on survivor reports in both France and Switzerland, we estimate there may be 25,000 of these creatures ravishing the countryside,” said Nicolas Sarkozy, acting President of the European Union Council. “We are doing everything we can to find out how to kill these creatures in order to stop them before they kill us all.”
Unconfirmed reports say that Mr. Sarkozy and his wife were both eaten aboard their private plane shortly after trying to escape from France.
The Hadron Collider, operated by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN), was originally built to recreate conditions shortly after the big bang. In order to accomplish this, a 17-mile circular track of over 1,000 cylindrical magnets was built to steer two proton beams in opposite directions at the speed of light. When the beams crossed paths, monitors were to record the collision of protons and the creation of sub-atomic particles that could have provided insights into the nature of the universe.
Opponents and critics of the project worried that black holes could accidentally be created by the Collider, sucking the entire planet as well as the galaxy into oblivion.
“Those goddamn scientists were wrong! And so were the critics!” screamed Lars Verdugo, physicist employed part time with CERN, in a final phone interview from Champagne, France. “Sons of bitches! One of those creatures has just taken my leg! Oh god! OH GOD! NOOO……”

realization #42

I chop stewed beef at 10pm.

I'm tired and blind, from having stared at a computer screen for 8 hours straight, and coming home to Demando Rodriguez on another hunger strike, and the routine of feeding, wrestling, bathing, diapering, 7 books (read REALLY fast), 2 renditions of Love Me Tender, half a Twinkle Twinkle, 3 hugs, and exit to crying (sigh).

I want to sit on the couch and watch bootleg episodes of Project Runway off of a chinese website, and eat whatever the food fairies hand me, and then roll off to bed.

But instead, I chop stewed beef at 10pm, so that we and DR will have something healthy (goddamit) to eat TOMORROW night, for once (goddamit).

And then it HITS me out of nowhere.

Mom didn't chop 4 pounds of raw chicken thighs at 11pm in front of the television every night because she was a night owl and loved to start cooking right before midnight!

MOM CHOPPED CHICKEN IN FRONT OF THE TV AT UNGODLY HOURS BECAUSE SHE WORKED ALL DAY, CAME HOME AND DEALT WITH US ALL EVENING, AND HAD TO START COOKING AT THE UNGODLY HOUR BECAUSE OTHERWISE WE WOULD HAVE NOTHING TO EAT THE NEXT DAY. AND SHE WATCHED TV BECAUSE SHE WANTED TO SIT AND WATCH SOME GODDAMN TV FINALLY, EVEN IF SHE DID HAVE TO KEEP ONE EYE ON THE GODDAMN CHICKEN!

Oh! Oooooohhhhhhh. Now I get it. I goddamn get it.

Hell will be full of unhelpful jerks like me

Three robed Buddhist monks walk into an institute. They look foreign and lost. One of them waves a map of the campus at me. I sit up and look at it. Our building is circled and a long inked arrow connects the center of the main campus to our doorstep. Two room numbers are scribbled on the corner of the map. They ask for the library. “The library is in the basement,” I say. “Just take the elevator to the fourth floor and—“

Our administrator walks up behind me and examines the map. “Those rooms are in another institute,” she says, “down the hall. Just walk out the door and head down the hallway, it’s on the left.”

The monk faces swing back to me. “Library?” I open my mouth to respond. “Down the hall,” she says again.

They frown, peeved. They hold up a printout with the picture of a smiling man on it. “Famous Indian man’s statue,” one says. I tilt my head, trying to recall the statues that pepper the campus. There was the giant holed sphere on a stick, the one that looked like a hippopotamus’ ass from every angle… and one of a Sufi sage in the room down the hall. He could be Indian.

I say to try down the hall, just down the hall there on the left. They hold up the picture again, shaking it insistently as if to fan away my ignorance. “Famous man,” he repeats. I shrug and nod. “I think it’s down the hall.” They frown and mutter to themselves. They leave.

Later I Google statues at the university and discover the one that they were searching for—it is the first link to pop up. He was the father of the Indian constitution and the champion of equal rights for the ‘untouchables’ caste—famous. A picture accompanies the news article. A visiting Indian dignitary points happily at the giant bronze head, smiling. I squint at the caption.

It’s in the fucking library.

It's Tuesday night, and the hottest place to be in New York is Whole Foods, and you're drunk

In the bathroom, they're playing "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" followed immediately by "Just Like a Dream" and you can't help but shake your stream to the beat. Ignore the guy washing his hands, and dance your way out the door. You don't have to wash your hands this time, because you'll be visiting this pine-scented dance floor at least two more times tonight.

The problem is that you had a couple of drinks upstairs, reconnecting with some old friends - not old friends in the sense that you laugh and hug and reminisce about old times, old friends in the sense that you need four beers to get through the half hour you spend together.

Normally you'd ignore Whole Foods and it's snooty ass sundries as you head out the revolving doors, but those drinks have made you too weak to resist the siren song of organic foodstuffs.

So you're stumbling around the aisles, cursing at Ranier cherries, and suddenly you realize that you've got no fewer than four bags of chips in your green, recycled-plastic basket. You see, Whole Foods knows that you can only take so much healthy stuff before you need to splurge on the bad-for-you goodies. And there's lots of the bad stuff. You're inebriated, so you want two-bite brownies and two-bite macaroons and two-bite cupcakes, all made with whole wheat and love.

You're not the only one with the naughty tendencies. The 32 girls in front of you all pause in front of the chocolate oasis stationed directly in front of the checkout. Drop your groceries off at home and hop on the A train. Everyone's heading over to Trader Joe's for the afterparty.

Tree sitters to be brought down in Berkley.

After a number of failed attempts to remove tree-sitters protesting a planned sports center, authorities are turning to animal control specialists to bring the protesters down.
“We’ve all seen when bears get into trees in residential neighborhoods,” said local sheriff Hans Daniels. “We’re going to do the same thing: bring out the dart guns and shoot those hippie fucks out of the trees.”
Daniels went on to add that unlike with bears, no trampolines would be provided when protesters fell out of the trees. “We’ve asked them repeatedly to leave,” said Daniels. “Bears can’t understand, but these granola hoarders certainly can and they’ve had their chance to leave.” The Sheriffs department has made it very clear that broken necks, arms, hips, legs, ribs, ass-bones, “or any other bone for that matter” could not be held against authorities.
The protesters have been living in the trees since December. Yesterday, food supplies were cut to protesters, and attempts early this morning to send Cliff Bars attached to raccoons were thwarted when the raccoons abandoned their mission to scavenge in trash cans.
At 9:15 this morning, work crews on cranes moved into the oak grove, limbs were chopped from trees, and scaffolding built to help the tree-sitters come down. Authorities hoped for a “speedy and safe end to this ugly bit of Berkeley history,” but by noon it was clear that protestors wouldn’t be leaving.
By 12:30, UC spokesman George Dogulom wrenched the bullhorn from police hands to deliver an impassioned rant to protesters. “Listen here you privileged, liberal fucks! Who the hell do you think you are? The fucking Lorax? You’re a bunch of upper-class white kids with dreadlocks! Your women don’t shave and you don’t use soap! We’re going to put this gymnasium in and so help me god, when you come down from those trees, I’ll personally beat every single one of you with my bare fists.”
In response, a series of nasty slurs came back from the treetops. While most were inaudible, the calls of “capitalist pig,” “republican prick,” and “douche-bag” were the most heavily repeated.
Dogulom was visibly shaken by the verbal barrage, and quickly ordered the protestors to be shot out of the trees with tranquilizer darts.
“We think it’s a great idea,” said Danny Black, one of the sports centers developers. “Get those goddamn kids out of the trees so we can build something people actually use.”
At 1:00 pm, Sheriff Daniels stated he was calling in the biggest, meanest animal catcher in the county. “Cooter knows exactly what to do in this situation,” said Daniels. “The man is an animal himself. Six-foot-eight. One eye. Sporadic hair growth all over his body. Cooter will have these liberal fagots out of those trees before sundown. And with extreme prejudice.”
Daniels continued on for eight minutes going over “Cooters” resume which included bare-knuckle boxing a kangaroo, oil-wrestling an alligator, single-handedly wiping out the black bear population in the area with only a bowie knife, and raping a male mountain lion.
“Cooter definitely sounds like the man for the job,” said Dogulom. “I can’t wait to see this beast of a man and what he does to those kids in those trees.”
No official comment has been made by the tree-sitters. But many speculate that when Cooter arrives, protesters will voluntarily surrender.
“Or face the consequences,” said Daniels as he creepily rubbed his hands on his flabby man-tits.

Why I Never Would Have Made The Debate Team

On my birthday, my family took me out to dinner. It's a traditional night out I look forward to; we order way too much food, I order expensive drinks because I'm not paying for them, everyone tells funny stories a little too loudly, and I get gifts at the end of the night. A good time is had by all.

And this time, I was enjoying myself as usual, until the subject of politics came up. They're all Republicans. I'm not. That in itself isn't a problem; surely, we're not the only family with a political black sheep. I'm ashamed to admit, though, that I don't handle political discussion very well. In fact, you can't even call it a discussion when I'm involved. Someone nearby starts criticizing Obama, or saying that Bush's win in 2004 was a good thing, and I go into system overload. My pulse races, the faculties for speech and reason disappear, and I get weird throbbing sensations behind my eyes. I imagine it's some distant cousin of a panic attack, and it isn't pleasant.

I've been able to bullshit my way through these family discussions in the past, mainly because we can all agree on wishing McCain had beaten Bush in 2000. But any affection I had for McCain is all but gone now, and their dislike for Obama has killed any remaining opportunity for common ground. So I tried to redirect the course of conversation. “Hey, guys, let's not talk about politics, it's my birthday”, I joked, trying to project a levity I wasn't feeling. It got a few laughs, so I guess it worked. But conversations have momentum, especially in large groups, and this one wasn't about to be diverted. As it continued on, someone said “I'm not really [either party affiliation], I just really hated John Kerry”, and my festering wounds from four years ago flared back to life. “Ok, now we really have to stop”, I said, and I don't know if anyone else heard the edge of panic in my voice, but I did. I don't remember exactly what came next; I think it was a comment about Obama making military cuts, or hurting the economy (seriously, what?), but I can't say for sure.

When I was a kid, the system overload thing usually ended with me punching somebody, but I'm long past the age when that was acceptable (likely, it never was). Everyone has to find an outlet for their anger. Some turn it outward; they scream and yell, or say hurtful things, or channel it into some constructive energy (I assume these lucky people exist). I'm in the other camp; all that anger stays inside, eats away at me, and gets channeled into destructive behavior.

So I excused myself from the table (with a laugh and what I hope was a minimum of drama), walked outside, and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. It really shouldn't be like this. I should be able to explain, calmly and eloquently, my thoughts on politics. But I just don't have that ability anymore. I walked back into the restaurant, smiled sheepishly as I sat down, and hoped no one would say anything about it.

Maybe I would be better off if I hadn't made Bush my own personal bogeyman. I've hated him since the 2000 Republican Primary, and the “So Glad I Voted for Bush!” bumper-sticker years after 9/11 took a heavy toll on me. After five years in Iraq, a painful 2004 campaign, and plenty of executive branch scandals, Bush to me now represents everything I hate about politics in this country. I've lost all sense of proportion and rationality when it comes to him. I can't speak calmly about this.

And I sure as hell can't explain it to my family. Even if I seem like a over-reacting weirdo when I storm out of the room. And not even if I would feel like a healthier, better person if I could explain it.

***

Footnote: I'm not saying you had to like Kerry. But you hated him, and liked Bush? Because you consider Bush a good person? It boggles my mind.

morning commute

This is what I passed on my way to work this morning:



Goats. A nice Tuesday WTF moment.

Reason not to wear sunglasses in addition to your baseball hat:

1. You kind of look like a pedophile.

re: onion wine

To skim:
Lest you get carried away with onion+wine, be aware that excessive weight loss might eventually necessitate padded underpants.

Thank you.
The Management

Oh how deep the deception runs!

I make the boy a delicious sandwich for lunch....

[it is necessary preface this all by saying that we're trying to teach him not to be a picky eater; which means we set one meal in front of him at each sitting, and that's all he gets. If he doesn't want it, he doesn't have to eat; but no swapping for something more desireable. It's been a bit trying, but maybe we're breaking him down.]

...By delicious sandwich, I mean grilled cheese. But not my mother's grilled cheese, which was mostly dense grainy bread, toasted, with a slice of half-melted cheddar draped over it. No, this is the one you remember from college. Buttered. On both slices. White bread. American cheese. Flip, flip, sizzle. Nice and brown. A little crispy. Melted just right.

Now granted, I did add a little extra to his sandwich. Finely minced cabbage and leftover green beans. The beans finely minced as well, just to be clear on that. Harmless! Nutritious, actually. I even tried a piece. Acceptable!

So I eat my sandwich and place his in front of him. Deciding to let the pure delight of true grilled cheese envelope him, I turn my attention to the Internet and some wonderfully nogin-noodling optical illusions. In the periphery, I see him chomping away. Quiety, I congratulate myself. None of this hollering and refusing to eat that we see when the boy's mother is around.

But of course, nothing is as simple as it seems.

Eventually I look up from my computer, having finished my sandwich and having become bored with the infantile optical illusions whose illusion is anything but optical. He is dutifully munching away, paying no apparent attention to me. I smile complacently. But then I look closer. Classic horror film moment. Punch in! Cue the strings!

There are still the same number of pieces of grilled cheese as when I placed them on his plate ten minutes earlier.

Upon subsequent observation, he seems to be studiously avoiding the pieces of sandwich and instead he is grabbing tiny crumbs from his plate and devouring them. Devouring them as if they were entire mouthfuls of sandwich. Tiny crumbs! Upon further inspection, he actually seems to just be grabbing nothing and devouring it as if it were entire mouthfuls of sandwich. Nothing!

Let me be clear on this. There's a 15 month old who can't put two words together, sitting in front of me, miming that he's picking up food, then placing his hand into his mouth and chewing air. He repeats this over and over and over again. He's trying to trick me into thinking that he's eating what I put in front of him. Trickery!

I stare at him. He looks straight ahead, then follows the progress of his "eating", taking the occasional glance around the room. Not giving anything away.

A cold shiver. Could this be my child? Barely 15 months old, and already showing a subterfuge more nefarious than that of a teenage girl? I am staring with literal waves of disbelief and fear washing through me. He happily continues his charade.

Finally, in horror, I remove the plate from in front of him and take him out of his high chair. I lift him up, look into his eyes and search for the source of this, for something to tell me it's not true, for some sign that this is not the beginning. Please tell me that the crumbs were just irresistibly tasty...

"Up!" he says.

I put him down carefully.

I watch as he toddles off in search of the satisfying crack of his toy wooden hammer and balls.

Oh how deep the deception runs!



posted by K.T.

My mother thinks I should change everything about myself as soon as possible

My mother calls me sometimes with the latest in weight loss breakthroughs from Korea. This afternoon she called me with the next surefire way to drop fat. Here is the recipe for healthy living:

1 bottle red wine - the cheaper the better
3-4 onions

Peel and quarter the onions and place them in a large jar or other container you don't really care to use ever again. Unscrew the top from the bottle of wine and pour contents over the onions. Set the concoction out on the counter. After three days, remove the onions from the wine and store both in the refrigerator.

Each night, drink one glass of the mighty fine onion wine. It should be a small glass, because you might become an alcoholic otherwise. Also, as an added bonus, the winy onions taste great in sandwiches.

Eat, drink and live healthy!

McCain is really a squid

Sources close to the McCain campaign have revealed that the Presidential hopeful is really a squid and not a man.
"It's obvious. I'm surprised nobody has caught on at all yet," said a reputable source that wished to remain anonymous. "It's all just an elaborate costume, like that creature from Men In Black that wears the skin of that farmer dude it eats."
Other sources confirmed that the cantankerous old candidate goes home every night, removes his human costume, and is promptly dumped in a small salt water pool by Cindy McCain where he sleeps at night.
"It's a long process," said an anonymous source nicknamed "Katherine." "First he has to remove his 'gloves.' That's when you see the purple tentacles. Then the suit comes off and then the head. I find it most disconcerting when the gloves come off first. Seeing John standing there in a full suit, smiling that creepy smile with tentacles coming out of his sleeves is enough to make anyone start praying to God." Luckily for Katherine, she is a Christian, and her prayers to the Lord to not be fed to McCain so far have been answered.
According to McCain historian Neil McKackley, the story begins in the jungles of Vietnam. While his official biography says that McCain was held prisoner for five years in a North Vietnamese POW camp, what actually happened is that McCain was abducted by squid people from an unknown galaxy and planet and his skin was used to plant moles around the country.
"When John came back from Vietnam, he was a different person," said McKackley. "And it wasn't because he was tortured in jail for five years, it was because he was no longer John McCain. He was a squid. Why do you think his marriage went sour when he got back? Why do you think he can't raise his arms above his head? Why do you think he has that oversized left jaw? It's because there are limits to what the body can do when occupied by a squid."
Official statement has not been made at this time by McCain over the squid allegations.
"It's truly a frightening thing," said Katherine. "But that's why he's with the Republican party. Most of those guys are squids, lizards, oversized space bugs, or just sentient bags of shit. There's an agenda there. I mean, just look at their archaic view on abortion: it's not for moral reasons, it's because they eat babies. They need more. How do you think McCain is so active nowadays at his age? He's living on a straight diet of baby meat."

btw

damn you, meatsweats, for starting this goddamn blog.

Now I will never finish my work.

(by assless chaps, were you thinking of the cowboy-inspired garments favored by those inclined towards rear entry, or were you thinking of those unfortunate lads who literally lack buttocks? Or farmers without donkeys?)

and second,

...Palin's little joke about the difference between hockey moms and pit bulls being lipstick...

It just makes me think about a pitbulls wearing lipstick.

Which, frankly, I find hilarious.

first of all

What is a hockey mom, anyway? Does that just mean white?