Food

September 2010
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Swimming In Mayonnaise

Jun 172010

I was outside today at lunch and I saw a rabbit eating grass. First he would nibble on some grass and then turn around, and right in the same place as he was sitting, he would nibble again.

My first thought was that he was working on some kind of age-old, rabbit fart, microwave technology. I thought, “Maybe this rabbit likes his clovers warmed through and funky.” I then considered what he was actually doing; he was eating ass grass. Gnarly/Far out.

That started me thinking about when people act similarly; where they touch their consumables with their groty ol’ butts and then eat. It’s like when, after a coke mule gets through airport security with a bag of Colombian marching powder stuffed three inches up his rectum, he then relaxes by removing the bag and sampling his tainted goods. (Keep in mind that the relaxation isn’t from removing the drugs; it’s the reinsertion that feels so good.)

That totally reminded of those times I drank all that pool water last summer. I got so sick. Was if from ingesting too much chlorine? We’ll never know.

Oh, that made me think of when people get submerged in liquid to have their body fat inspected. What if they used stuff other than water like chocolate sauce or dollar coins to test body fat? You know, like Scrooge McDuck? If I had a tower of gold coins and I was made a toon by the great God Himself, I’d totally swim in that filthy, filthy, dirty, wonderful money.

What if instead of a vault of money, I had a vault of cool and refreshing mayonnaisse? I would totally swim in that. I would probably fart in it and watch/smell my bubbles as they gurgled to the surface (because that’s what you do when you go swimming). And just like that rabbit in the grass today, I’d probably eat it.

Shrimp

Food, Life Lessons 2 Responses »

Jun 152010

What’s the best part about shrimp? They’re American, dammit! Those tiny sh*ts are plentiful and, as far as I’m concerned when you’ve got some of that delicious cocktail sauce, they’re tasty, too. But something happened recently that really puckers my barn hole.

Seven weeks ago (and counting), the oil and gas mogul, British Petroleum or BP, “accidentally” collapsed an oil well in the Gulf of Mexico and is uncontrollably pumping its bubbly crude all over American shrimping waters. Why we haven’t waged war against these f*ck sticks is beyond me.

What’s worse is that we (America collectively, except Lonny) have swallowed this grimy glob and will to continue to do so. In a gesture to keep fishing and tourism industries afloat during this crisis, BP has done what any company does in a crisis situation; they threw money at it. Big money, too. It’s the kind of money that allows sick f*cks the opportunity to do sick f*ck things.

This is the kind of money that says, “Not only am I not going to fix this environmental catastrophe, I’m going to buy you, cut off your balls and make you my eunuch, remove your testicles from the hairy ball skin, staple, then duct tape the skin over your mouth and nose while I tickle you and watch you die to death you p*ssy.”

Thanks to cash reimbursements to support lost business caused by the oil spill, some fishing companies are generating more business than before the spill.

Instead of using this money to protect themselves from future oopsies, companies spend to reinvent themselves. This unadvised spending creates illusions of market stability in uncertain times and opens the flood gates for struggling companies to venture into risky endeavors.

I can imagine the CEO from one of the aforementioned struggling fishing companies thinking, “This is the time we make a big move.” And because he has new money to burn, he goes against all logic and fishes oil soaked waters. After which, some greased wheel at a hackneyed advisory operation like the Louisiana Shrimp and Fisherman Council to okay some new product line. All of a sudden, your kid is hooked on Red Lobster’s/Fishy Joe’s/Long John Silver’s/Generic non-seafood eatery’s Crude Dude’s Boily and Oily Super Duper Shrimp Poppers (try ‘em with tar ball dippin’ sauce!) which by some stroke has been pushed to market by a rejuvenated BP (British Prawns).

I’m really gonna hate that.

Successful Diet Plan

Food, Life Lessons, work 4 Responses »

Jan 252010

Ever since high school, I’ve been hip to the health scene. I’m familiar with the rules that insure a healthy life: eating the right foods, exercising regularly and burning more calories than I ingest are crucial to successful living.

Since high school, however, I have avoided these rules like the plague. Nothing turns my buttons like a fifteen thousand calorie day packed full of stuffing my fat face at a buffet or drinking my way through a suitcase of beer. It pains me to think that these days of extravagant indulgence are over. I have neglected my body too long. As a result of my willie-nilly relationship with exercising and dieting, my heart hurts.

So, starting today, I have decided to adhere to a lifestyle change: a specific diet of no more than 2500 calories a day combined with regular exercise, lots of water and a daily vitamin. I am tracking my calorie intake at www.my-calorie-counter.com. Right now, I’m a flabby 221 pounds…I’d like to weigh less (somewhere around 185). My BMI is somewhere between “ech” and “fatty”. I’d like to maintain this plan for six months or until it becomes habitual. I made a chart with my wife to help track progress and plan out meals. Chart Progress

I have a gym membership that has been collecting dust for months. I will work out at least three times a week for at least 45 minutes per time. I’m ready, I’m able and I’m willing. Here we go! It’s time to kick start this bitch!

One Short Stack, Coming Up – A Tattoo’s Story

Food, Hate, Injury, Life Lessons, Story, World's Worst 8 Responses »

Jan 122010

My one time great dorm mate and supposed tweaker, Dave W. Cissell , once posted on his Facebook that “Morality is temporary, wisdom is permanent…”

Notice the butterfly's unicorn horn

Short stack, short stack, coming up

There was a time when I was strictly opposed to the form of body art known as tattooing. I forbade myself from ever permanently scarring my flesh with some meaningless tribal band or ill placed flower. I was opposed, until I heard this story of a band of brothers and their quest for greatness; a story that I’m making mine. This story gave me wisdom.

And, so it was. I ventured into the vast expanse of the world and came back with a permanent scar. It’s something to show just how committed to living life fully I really am. Sunday:

My wife, Jessica, and I went to the tattoo parlor the other day and returned with ink. We were assisted by Ben at Primitive Soul Tattoo in Lakewood, CO.

Nice place. Clean, seemingly reputable.

We were joined by our good friend and snack raider, Tyler J. Jessica didn’t want us to watch as she received her ‘too so Ty and I ran to get some pho. It took an hour, but it was really good pho. Pho 95. The best, Jerry. The best. We were headed back when I received a call from Jessica. ”It’s time,” she said.

When I arrived there were some kids standing outside the shop smoking. One looked like a retard, another one slipped on some ice and nearly fell. As I was walking in, I slipped in the same spot. ”Now who looks like the retard?” their jeers suggested.

We went in and I got inked. Squid style, son. The image of a short stack of pancakes three high, forever ingrained in my skin and on my soul. Maybe one day I’ll incorporate some mythical creature with a bowl of cereal for a body and bulls-eye eggs and bacon for a face hurdling over my pancakes. The sky’s the limit!

Afterwards, we went to a liquor store to get some beer and I showed the Chinese lady my new tattoo and she was aghast. Take that, lady! You just got caked. I’m living. I’m full of wisdom and, now, beer. Here’s a movie:

New Tattoo For You Plus Two A.K.A The Jackalope

Animal, Food, Life Lessons, Story No Responses »

Dec 142009

Things to consider when getting a tattoo:

1. The tattoo has a unique story behind it

2. You have no personal biases against tattoos

3. The tattoo incorporates pancakes

The vegetarian diet of a butterly makes its magic look like poop

I’d never considered a tattoo. My wife has one of a magical butterfly and she resents it every day. I’ve always been told modifying the body in such an unnatural way goes against the Jewish religion (a faith I used to subscribe to). And I’ve never seen a piece of art or cartoon that I loved so badly as to prominently display it on my human flesh. From this, I can say that without a doubt, I’m not much of a “tattoo guy”. That was until Saturday night.

I spent several really good hours this weekend at my friend’s wedding–for the sake of naming names, let’s call the wedding the union of A Wat and Mel Wat. It’s no big deal or nothin’ but the governor was there–for fun’s sake, I’m not gonna tell you which one. The ceremony was all churchy and nice and junk, but the reception is where things got all friggin’ awesome.

It was at said reception where I encountered a gentleman who, for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call C. Lav. Mr. Lav was kind enough to humor me with a wonderful anecdote from his past that has quite possibly altered my perception of tattoos and friendship for the rest of eternity.

The story begins with an innocent marriage proposal. C. Lav’s best friend, let’s call him B. Mav for the sake of this story, was to be wed to a woman. B. Mav was expecting a bachelor party to be held in his honor by his two very best friends, C. Lav and his other friend, for the sake of the story and for purposes of anonymity, we’ll call A. Nav.

To honor the time old tradition, C. Lav and A. Nav planned a party for B. Mav which entailed a trek across these late, great United States via passenger rail car from Denver to Chicago and then to Milwaukee and back again. B. Mav was excited for the journey as it was the popular style at the time.

It was in this honorable and timeless journey that the most incredible thing happened. Along the way, somewhere between here and there, the three decided to do something radical. Dazed from the toxins that one ingests during a bachelor party, the men wound up in a house of pancakes. (An international house, no less.)

It all started with a conversation about B. Mav’s reoccurring dream of a soaring hawk swooping down into a pond and, delivering to the sky a lily pad that was locked within the deadly clutches of his talons. As majestic and vivid as the dream seemed, it all sounded hokey and gay to A. Nav and C. Lav.

“Nobody’s going to recognize a tattoo of a lily pad, dude,” they said, “Why don’t you make it something cool that looks like a lily pad but is way cooler?”

As the three pondered the suggestion, they gathered ideas from their surroundings. What looks like a lily pad but is more stately and ultimately cooler? Pancakes!

B. Mav agreed to an artist’s depiction of a hawk soaring above pancakes so long as C. Lav and A. Nav also plated a tattoo incorporating pancakes. And so it was.

Pokey the Unicorn in all his majesty

The boys embarked on a second journey…to get tattoos of pancakes. On their way, A. Nav and C. Lav decided what tattoos to get. A. Nav decided on a beast that represents mystic wisdom and grandeur hurdling a short stack…he picked a unicorn. This was no ordinary unicorn, however. It was an expression of his boyhood hero, Pokey from the claymation cartoon series, “Gumby”.

C. Lav went for another creature of mystic proportions. He picked a creature more elusive than the unicorn…one that had captivated his imagination ever since seeing the head of one prominently displayed on the wall of an Applebee’s. He chose the mighty jackalope making quick work of pancakes.

So it came to be that these three best of friends would be joined spiritually and emotionally with iconic beasts and their pancakes tattooed to their skin for all time.

Afterwards, they traveled home only to share their tale with trusted contemporaries. I enjoyed the story very much but was skeptical. Determined to prove his anecdote, C. Lav took me to the bathroom and exposed me to the markings of his hind quarter. It is with great pleasure that I share the glory with you, my faithful readership. I give you what must simply be called the Jackalope…

The Jackalope

This representation changes my perception of tattoos all together. I anticipate the day when I can vandalize my skin with the same creative display as C. Lav. I can only hope that it comes out of the same love and passion that only best friends can share. Thanks for the story, buddy.

Do you have a tattoo story that you love, or hate? Feel free to share it in your comments…

Addiction

Food, Half-ass, Injury, Life Lessons, Poop Related 1 Response »

Nov 302009

Beer is helping

I drink eight cups of coffee a day and, at least, a diet cola. I masturbate twice on the hour every hour and watch TV for dozens of hours on end. If I have one beer, there’s a good chance I’ll have all of the beer.

I have what some people might call an addictive personality (and, consequently, I also have a heart condition known as bad-ass heart condition; it’s terminal).

This namesake doesn’t impede me one bit. I’m a big fan of going all out whenever I can. It’s expensive and it’s dangerous, but it’s not my gripe.

I love taking it to the limit time after time. My problem is that I am an all-or-nothing kind of guy. If there’s beer in your fridge, I drink it. If there’s food on your plate, I eat it.

In fact, one time I ate 50 hot wings in a boned-meat eating competition from my competitor’s bowl because he hadn’t shown up yet…he won. My asshole was so raw the next day from pooping hot fire that I had to buy a 20lb. bag of ice to cool my poop shoot. I would have bought the 50lb. bag but they were out.

Unfortunately, gorging my fat face ends with beer bottles and bird parts. When the product of consumption is healthy or educational, I quit it.

I gave up exercising after I learned how hard it was. I took some college class for a time, but it wasn’t for me. I am a novice guitar holder at best. You couldn’t pay me enough to participate in a veggie eating contest.

And this is confusing to me. It strikes me as odd that I gorge on crap but not on things that are inherently good for me. This leads me to believe that the things that are inherently good for me aren’t.

Besides, if my body’s natural rhythm is thrown off by a bag of carrots, maybe I shouldn’t be eating them. And that’s what I’m going to do.

Fueling my addictions is just that; fuel. And I need fuel to go…to couch and TV. What doesn’t kill me only makes me want more. Does anybody want to buy my guitar?

Get Back On That Horse

Animal, Driving Car, Food, Half-ass, Life Lessons, The Future, work 7 Responses »

Oct 132009

Two weeks have come and gone since my fall from grace. I quit my job, I started working out, and I’m drinking again. The cosmos have been set into motion and my universe has been chaotically shredded by the lawn-mower blades of fate. The baby step I took to reclaim my life turned into a stumble that left the virtual pages of WordPress blank. Aside from myself, the biggest losers in this mess have been all of those who look to these posts for motivation and an excuse to mock me. I apologize to all four of you. As for me, however, I made a mistake. While I’ll never regret getting out of that soul-stealing, slave mill I called a job, I regret my preparation for the next step in my life. My goals of becoming a comic/writer/chauvinist have fallen flat, but not for long. I made another step.

I ventured out. Money has been tight since I quit. In an attempt to save on automobile gas, I journeyed by foot to the stable to see my sweet ponies, Success and Virtue. Due to extremely long stretches of immobility indoors, my muscles and lungs had weakened and my tan had all but disappeared leaving my newly acquired bed sores exposed to the elements. Regardless, I found motivation and made my way to the street. I stepped out of my home only to feel my pasty skin bake from the torturous blazes of the autumn sun. My heart rate surged creating a gentle sweat which, while cooling my skin from the sun’s intensity, stung my open bed sores. The sunshine glistened off of my sweaty skin directly into my eyes. As a result of the glare, temporary blindness caused me to see eye-worms; glowing dots in my retinas creating stabbing pain and tears. The eye-worms took the form of Success and Virtue, the fore mentioned ponies I had started out to visit. In all but five minutes in the real world, I had no choice but to second guess my actions. I went back into my home.

Summoning the courage to leave my apartment after the solemn events I conjured, proved to be a difficult task. The heavy burden of taking on a new adventure was scary. Attempting to find my own Success and Virtue caused blinding pain from hot flashes and sweat. The real world’s sun is brutal. Its warming light shines down allowing us to forge a path toward our goals. However, the light can be intense and if a person is not prepared, his journey will be riddled with burn and eye-worms. Ironically, the only way to prepare him is to set him on his journey in the sun’s blazes encouraging each small step forward.

My journey has just begun and there are many steps to be taken. Although the latest action may have been a misstep, it wasn’t all bad. My tan is back and my muscles and lungs are strong again. The sores on my skin have healed (sans my genitalia…that’s right…Herpes). Unfortunately, in the time it took me to build up my tolerance of the real world, my ponies died. Oh well. Success and Virtue don’t always take the form you first expected. At least there will be enough meat to last through winter, thus saving money on grocery meats. Now, I just have to go out there and retrieve it. Ah, sh*t.

10 Reasons I’ve Ever Been Scared

10 Reasons, Animal, Food, Life Lessons, Poop Related, family, kids No Responses »

Sep 152009

I took a picture of my perineum using a mirror. This isn't it.

There are a lot of things out there that keep me indoors and away from windows. My life revolves around avoiding things that scare me and wearing hair nets. As much as I’ve tried to overcome some of my most basic fears, I always find ways to reinforce them. The following is a compilation of the 10 worst times I’ve ever been scared:

10. My poop turned blue for three days after eating TCBY’s Arthur the Aardvark’s Cotton Candy flavored frozen yogurt.

9. After snapping some voyeuristic pictures behind a circus tent, I was mauled by a black bear.

8. I was unable to take back a pair of denim jeans at the Gap. Now I just keep things.

7. I got a bee sting on my boner. (Thank you, Johnny & J-Pa)

6. I cut my perineum (see left; “incision”) on a barbed-wire fence while tobogganing in France. I had to wear a heavy flow maxi-pad for a week. (And that’s the closest I’ve ever been to a woman.)

5. I was held at knife point at a McDonald’s drive-thru for sarcastically ordering a “Crappy Meal”.

4. I held a pee in so long playing the drinking game Edward Forty Hands that urine sprayed out of my nipples.

3. My mother adopted me from my grandmother.

2. Thinking I had found the last morsel of food in my house, I once ate a lot of cat food.

-And Finally-

1. A maniacal and murderous clown named Adam who lives in a brightly colored school bus parked in a mountain meadow is stalking me via MySpace. (My real name is Liz)

Just Curious…

Animal, Food, Poop Related, World's Worst 2 Responses »

Sep 042009

Yeah, kind of like this

I’m curious about retards but I’m scared to approach them. I see Down Syndrome people or wheel-abouts (my expression for the mentally and physically doomed) and my heart aches.

I feel so bad that I can’t even talk to them. I know if I did I would slip up and start asking them math related questions. I weep inside when I see a bus of them pull up outside the mall’s food court.

What, if anything, are they thinking? Do you think that their thought processes are like those of animals?

I heard this argument once that animals don’t have the ability to feel or communicate with others. One justification for slaughtering cows or chickens to eat is that they can’t feel the pain because they’re somehow immune.

Are retards like that? Are they immune to pain? If they can’t feel anything or communicate effectively, do they want to live? Should we eat them?

We’d have to kill them first. According to my speculation, they won’t feel it. Most wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about the injustice they were suffering at the feed lots because they couldn’t comprehend the situation. They wouldn’t know any different.

I can see them getting upset trying to think about the way things could be or couldn’t be or just….UGH, poop! They could just vent their frustrations with poop throwing/eating contests. “Do you smell that, honey? I think they just wrangled up some more ‘tards for slaughter.”

I wonder what they taste like. If only I wasn’t so scared to ask them, they could probably tell me.

Dead Rabbits

Animal, Ball Sport, Food, Injury, Life Lessons, Story, Tookie, family 2 Responses »

Aug 252009

Tookie is my cat and we live on the third story of a condominium building. He is extraordinary in every way. He is cute and fun like a small human. He bites hard and sleeps well. Even the way his huge craps stink is immaculate. Unfortunately for him, he is an outdoor cat trapped inside a indoor cat’s house. Sometimes, however, he is allowed out when I leave the house and the neighbors are gone. And this is where one of his best features kicks in. In order to get back into the condo after I let him outside, he doesn’t just wait at the front door making a scene for no one to hear like all the other idiot cats out there. No, he’s better than that. Using pure prowess and power, grace and skill, he scales the back side of our building with his cat-like claws and incredible strength. He jumps on our back porch and comes in through a dog door I paid for with my mother’s retirement money. This morning, I let Tookie outside a little earlier than usual so that he could exercise his handsome feline features. Which he did.

Tookie sometimes reminds me just how close to nature we actually live. We are a mere 20 yards from open space and, because of this Tookie and I have an agreement: He may only take memories and leave only footprints. Today he violated that agreement. He caught, maimed, killed, carried up the building, sat down on my kitchen floor with, and devoured the head of a baby rabbit (otherwise known as a cutie or a babbit). It’s pretty incredible what my cat is capable of. It’s even more incredible how much he can just kill an innocent creature with no remorse only minutes after I fed him. But I’m not even mad; I’m actually a little proud. Look what he can do! Commit murder? The thing is I just don’t want to clean up his pukes. Maybe if I leave it, my lover, JDubs, will clean it up with a trash sack and spare me the trouble.

Tookie eats rabbits like a man juggles; with balls

How I Learned How To Read

Food, Life Lessons, Story, kids No Responses »

Aug 122009

I learned how to read just like you. Except not like you at all. You prick; you think you’re better than me? When I see the word “big”, I think of bestial anatomy. When I hear the word “skipper”, I cringe. Reading is a chore. A sexy chore of disgusting images and male on male intercourse.

My story starts when I was a young lad. My parents abandoned me and left me to die in a pie shop. They knew I hated pie. I made an immaculate escape. It was daring and spectacular and that’s all I’m going to say about that here. This story is about what happened next. I was rummaging through a dumpster one night after my escape looking for a cat to eat. All of a sudden I was rescued by a maiden. She was tall and her Adam’s apple was poking through her skirt. Her vibrant voice startled the cat and I got mad. She asked me what I was doing. When I told her that I was a lone ranger with no one to love, she grabbed my neck nape and kissed my lips. The cat came back and we ate.

I knew that I could trust her because she was tall. She took me to her house. It was the whoryist house in the whole neighborhood. There were all sorts of skank-ass hos and their Johns. There were pizza boxes and pimps; recycled newspapers bins and crab shells; dogs and sweat pants. The lady who found me told me she would raise me as her own and teach me how to read. She then kissed me again and punched me in the gut with her fist. The next day she taught me reading.

She said the only way to learn is to envision the words. She taught me to think of an image each time I saw a letter so I could remember the sound. She said that I could break down the words into letters and remember whole words by imagining the words that each letter represented to me. Normally, this strategy might have worked, but I was in a whore house. The only words for letters I could think of were the perverse images I witnessed. Take the word “duck”: D is for the DEA, U is for uterus (I actually had one like as a pet rock), C is for big, gigantic, black c*ck (modifiers were another one of her lessons) and, K was for kiddie porn (I was also a movie star). When I put it all together it looks like Ving Rhames dressed as a cop ripping the uterus out of an old hag watching me on VHS. Far from an actual duck.

I am grateful I learned to read. I despise that it was at the expense of my innocence. Now where did I put that calico kitten? I’m about to have me some dinner. Let me know if you want me to spell out some other words for you.

What Work

Food, Hot Chicks, Life Lessons, kids, work No Responses »

Aug 062009

A lot of people ask me what I do for a living. It has been suggested that I should have an “elevator speech” prepared for just such occasions. Something that titillates and informs in the time that it takes to travel on an elevator. So here it goes. This is what I would tell you if you asked me what I do for a living:

“Hi, how’s it going? (Pause for response, very important). Good, me too. Oh, what do I do? I work in the health care field. I am what’s know as a materials handling specialist. (pause for courtesy chuckle). I do some dicing and cutting, but for the most part I work the scrape and suck apparatus. But don’t let the name fool you. There’s no real scraping going on. It’s more like a scramble using a plain ol’ garden-variety clothes hanger (sterile, of course) in a vigorous whisking motion. There’s no real sucking either, come to think of it. I just use the end of the hanger like a hook and extract that way. It can be pretty messy work. That’s why I wear latex gloves and a rubber smock. I really hate staining my scrubs. They say you must not have a soul to do this job, but that is so misguided. Dozens of little souls are harvested every day. I figure when I die, I can just rope them together and ride the “stairway to heaven” in a chariot behind those little angels.”

Were you titillated? If you guessed correctly, you may have said that I work as an omelet chef in a hospital brunch buffet (it’s a nice hospital). If you guessed incorrectly, you’re sick.

The Last Time I Crapped My Pants

Ball Sport, Food, Half-ass, Injury, Poop Related, Story, kids No Responses »

Aug 052009

Yeah, I shard. So what? If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too. Have you ever been on a bus? This isn’t about that. This is a story. And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old. It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon. I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple. At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers. I was proud then. It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos. They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people. I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.

My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age. During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house. There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two. We never needed outfielders. Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house. Like I said, it was a defunkity sac. We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp. There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun. Actually, it was a lot of fun. Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.

At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues. They had organized a game that we all knew well. We got on to playing. As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus. I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt. Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass. It was coming on slow but steady. I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.

So, like most people do, I weighed my options. I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences. Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat. It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right. For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy. I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way. After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”

I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch. So, I sat on a pitch. And another. And another. And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far. The pitch came and I took a cut. It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me. Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed. The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants. As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete. I did it. I crapped my pants. And the driveway, too, apparently.

Cereal Mix Up

Food, Uncategorized 1 Response »

Jul 282009

I am the self proclaimed king of face stuffing. Above all foods, cereal is the one I prefer to stuff my face with. I like all the kinds. I just cram it down my crammity cram hole. It’s a great way to start the day, end the day, take a break from the day, drown emotions I don’t want to feel every day, and enjoy the day. I crave it. Sometimes I crave it so much that I do weird things. Is it ok to mix cereals? Yeah, it is.

What if I get down to the end of one box and the bowl is only half full? No one should fill up half ways…what a waste of milk and time. I gotta top off before I slop off. Besides, how else am I supposed to get 35% of my daily fiber intake while fulfilling my essential marshmallow quota? Fiber One + Count Chocula is what.

I only postulate because I saw my lovely honey bear’s father, Dougras, mixing salad dressings one time. Ranch and blue cheese would have been kosher with me (not literally, it was bacon ranch), but he doused balsamic vinegarette and a honey mustard sauce all over his salad. It was a vinegary, creamy mess….ladies?

All I can think is that I looked that disgusting with my cereal blends. I mean, it’s not really a Cold Stone Creamery mix in selection: “Yes, hi. How’s it going? Can I get the baby batter ice cream with, hmmm? I think I’ll try thousand island and skittles. Uh, I hope it’s good?” Ah yeah, no. You look nuts. Why don’t you try one of the pre-crafted options like the candy/candy mix up? At least those are crafted from the same elements like sugar and heart disease.

But what makes cereal so different? The combinations are endless and could potentially be just as revolting as mixing Kraft and Paul Newman’s Own salad dressings. The difference, my friend, is that cereal, no matter what variety, starts with the same base ingredients; grains.

Dressing is made with all sorts of crap like mayonnaise or vinegar or alkaline metals or poison oak. It doesn’t matter how much sugar you dump onto it, a grain is a grain and they all taste the same. And there’s nothing wrong with homogeneity. So next time you’re down to that last little bit of Lucky Charms and you don’t want to waste your sugary milk, go ahead. Go ahead and top ‘er off with some of your grandmother’s Muesli.

Everything’s going to be just fine because it all looks the same in the end, especially with all of that extra fiber you’re getting.

What Day Is It?

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