You can thank me whenever you care to for the things that I do to increase your survivability.
I suppose I should explain what I mean by that. Every day, myself and countless others are diligent in our efforts to ensure that the highest possible number of people receive the longest possible and safest evacuation routes to best support the repopulation of the human race.
I am, of course, referring to the inevitable Zombie Apocalypse.
Now I'm sure you're confused how a small-time writer is helping you prepare for the end of life and civilization as we know it. I assure you that this is the case. Here's how we do it, all day, every day.
It is a well-documented fact that zombies have an insatiable lust for human flesh, particularly the brain. The method which we employ to safeguard your swift and uncontested passing through to safety is one which requires nerves of steel and Zen-like understanding of life.
We provide a juicier target than you do.
That's right. Just like a chef seeks out a well-marbled steak at the counter over a gristly piece of 99% lean stringy muscle, zombies also seek out the "best in the flock" to dine upon first.
I, myself, have not quite been promoted to Grade A Prime zombie desire yet, although the day will certainly come. As it is, many of you reading this can already breathe a little easier with the knowledge that you will provide less of a tender buffet of human flesh for the undead. While the zombies busy themselves with gnashing their teeth on the hard-earned results of dedicated burger and bacon consumption, you and your loved ones will be free to flee to your pre-established evacuation zones.
You do have a pre-established evacuation zone, don't you?
And that isn't even where our efforts begin. Even after being chomped and chewed and partially digested, our efforts to ensure your survival continue. Yes, it's like one of those infomercials, only we don't require an easy payment schedule.
After we have been converted to the ranks of the undead, it will be easy to spot us lumbering along. Being in not the best of physical conditions to begin with, our reanimated corpses will provide slow targets for your sniper defenses. Slow-moving, large targets. And it is widely speculated that we might still retain a deeply-rooted taste for other life.. namely, pigs and cows. All of which will further provide you with a higher chance for safe escape.
It is a difficult and sometimes morbid path we choose. Not everyone can do it. Many panic at the idea of the coming end and seek to rapidly reverse their decision, shedding the results of years of training. Others deal with the pressure by not thinking of the grim possibilities. And there are the few, like yours truly, who embrace their role as a Protector of Humanity in the face of the worst possible odds that can be: guaranteed death to assure another human's survival.
You can express your thanks in the form of bacon cheeseburgers, fried chicken, or pizza. Thank you for your time.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
On My Dedication to Your Survival
On Vehicular Personality Disorder
One thing that never fails to fascinate me is how getting behind the wheel of a car has a tendency to alter a person's personality.
For some reason, it can incite a near-Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-ian metamorphosis which will turn even the nicest person into a domineering hose beast-on-wheels. And contrary to what some individuals might say, it is by no means limited to members of the female persuasion driving SUV's.
No, the issue is far, far more insidious and widespread than that.
The drive to work today was a prime example. What I can only describe as a nice-looking senior lady driving a Honda Accord (boasting a sticker reading "Coexist") was swerving in and out of lanes, narrowly avoiding the freeway median and several other drivers by margins measured in inches, not feet. The sticker must belong to someone else, I thought, since she surely wasn't about to make any statements supporting peaceful coexistence in a multi-lane environment.
On the other end of the spectrum, a Jeep from New Hampshire (with "Live free or die" clearly stated on the license plate as the state's motto), and "Semper Fidelis" USMC stickers on the bumper, was casually rolling along at fifteen miles per hour under the posted speed limit. Under normal circumstances, I would simply attribute such behavior to the fact that this person is obviously from out of town, and is probably trying to find some sense of direction in the streets of my city, which were apparently planned by the Cheshire Cat.
Yes, that would have been an easy dismissal to make on many streets. Freeways, on the other hand, make that a much, much more difficult thing to do. Especially when on a stretch with no exits for four miles in either direction and while driving in the far right hand lane (reserved for HOV drivers) while casually puffing on a cigarette (that I hope was filled with tobacco).
One shot, one kill, indeed. When he finally arrives at his destination, after being potentially waylaid by a number of fast food restaurants immediately off the exit.
I move that we call this phenomenon “Vehicular Personality Disorder” and begin pharmaceutical research for a regulating agent immediately. I’m sure that the big drug companies would love the profits coming from nearly every driver on the road being prescribed the product for the duration of their driving lives, and lobbyists could definitely pitch the concept on the angle of “safer streets.” I’ll have to write my local member of Congress about it in the near future.
Because I swear to God, the next person that cuts me off is getting rear-ended and run off the road.
For some reason, it can incite a near-Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-ian metamorphosis which will turn even the nicest person into a domineering hose beast-on-wheels. And contrary to what some individuals might say, it is by no means limited to members of the female persuasion driving SUV's.
No, the issue is far, far more insidious and widespread than that.
The drive to work today was a prime example. What I can only describe as a nice-looking senior lady driving a Honda Accord (boasting a sticker reading "Coexist") was swerving in and out of lanes, narrowly avoiding the freeway median and several other drivers by margins measured in inches, not feet. The sticker must belong to someone else, I thought, since she surely wasn't about to make any statements supporting peaceful coexistence in a multi-lane environment.
On the other end of the spectrum, a Jeep from New Hampshire (with "Live free or die" clearly stated on the license plate as the state's motto), and "Semper Fidelis" USMC stickers on the bumper, was casually rolling along at fifteen miles per hour under the posted speed limit. Under normal circumstances, I would simply attribute such behavior to the fact that this person is obviously from out of town, and is probably trying to find some sense of direction in the streets of my city, which were apparently planned by the Cheshire Cat.
Yes, that would have been an easy dismissal to make on many streets. Freeways, on the other hand, make that a much, much more difficult thing to do. Especially when on a stretch with no exits for four miles in either direction and while driving in the far right hand lane (reserved for HOV drivers) while casually puffing on a cigarette (that I hope was filled with tobacco).
One shot, one kill, indeed. When he finally arrives at his destination, after being potentially waylaid by a number of fast food restaurants immediately off the exit.
I move that we call this phenomenon “Vehicular Personality Disorder” and begin pharmaceutical research for a regulating agent immediately. I’m sure that the big drug companies would love the profits coming from nearly every driver on the road being prescribed the product for the duration of their driving lives, and lobbyists could definitely pitch the concept on the angle of “safer streets.” I’ll have to write my local member of Congress about it in the near future.
Because I swear to God, the next person that cuts me off is getting rear-ended and run off the road.
On Unnecessary Warning Labels
I recently purchased a bag of salted peanuts.
While that act, in and of itself, may seem completely innocent, something on the packaging struck my eye and simply would not let go. On the back of the little tube-shaped bag was a bold statement which loudly proclaimed: "Warning: May Contain Peanuts."
I, for one, sincerely hope my $0.69 bag of snacky goodness did, in fact, contain peanuts. However, that word "may" left me feeling a little less secure in what I thought was quite plain for all to see. There was, after all, a little window on the front beneath the words Salted Peanuts where a consumer could (at least in theory) verify that the purchase they were about to make did, in fact, contain peanuts. Which, if you are in the market for peanuts, it should be a safe assumption that the bag marked peanuts - with peanuts visible prior to opening the container - actually contains peanuts.
The warning label implies otherwise. This bag only might contain peanuts. You could, for example, be chomping away unaware of the fact that the contents are really cleverly-designed and chemically treated textured soy protein which only looks and tastes like peanuts. And knowing the FDA's penchant for letting tiny loopholes like that slide (pure canola oil cooking spray is apparently "fat free" since it contains less than half a gram of fat per serving, in spite of being 100% fat, for example), it's not wholly unbelievable that the bag of what appears to be, and is clearly labeled peanuts, in truth may or may not actually contain peanuts.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the need for food allergen labelling. Accidentally biting into the wrong thing and winding up in anaphylactic shock is no laughing matter. However, it's quite depressing going down, say, the candy aisle at your local grocer and trying to find something you can have. Pretty much every candy bar has that death stamp of "may contain peanuts and/or tree nuts." If you are one of the people who has this particular physiological adversity, that has got to be a rather deflating task, picking up each candy bar one at a time, only to say, "Nope, move along" at every step.
I would think it'd make more sense to have the exact opposite labelling philosophy. Assume every candy bar is made of peanut-based arsenic death unless you see a bright yellow-and-red label happily proclaiming "I'm Peanut-Free!" That would make everyone's jobs a lot easier, both the chocolate-deprived peanut-allergic consumer, and the manufacturer who has to ensure the graphic artist didn't forget to make the label obvious enough to avoid a lawsuit.
That, however, is candy. Other products can stay the way they are. Since almost every chocolatier known to man uses nuts at some point, that's a different animal. But keeping a label on a product you would have no expectations of the presence of nuts - say, a bag of white rice or quick-dry cement - that's still necessary.
Though it does speak volumes about the state of our world when a bag of Salted Peanuts must be labeled with "contains peanuts."
....well, maybe.
While that act, in and of itself, may seem completely innocent, something on the packaging struck my eye and simply would not let go. On the back of the little tube-shaped bag was a bold statement which loudly proclaimed: "Warning: May Contain Peanuts."
I, for one, sincerely hope my $0.69 bag of snacky goodness did, in fact, contain peanuts. However, that word "may" left me feeling a little less secure in what I thought was quite plain for all to see. There was, after all, a little window on the front beneath the words Salted Peanuts where a consumer could (at least in theory) verify that the purchase they were about to make did, in fact, contain peanuts. Which, if you are in the market for peanuts, it should be a safe assumption that the bag marked peanuts - with peanuts visible prior to opening the container - actually contains peanuts.
The warning label implies otherwise. This bag only might contain peanuts. You could, for example, be chomping away unaware of the fact that the contents are really cleverly-designed and chemically treated textured soy protein which only looks and tastes like peanuts. And knowing the FDA's penchant for letting tiny loopholes like that slide (pure canola oil cooking spray is apparently "fat free" since it contains less than half a gram of fat per serving, in spite of being 100% fat, for example), it's not wholly unbelievable that the bag of what appears to be, and is clearly labeled peanuts, in truth may or may not actually contain peanuts.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the need for food allergen labelling. Accidentally biting into the wrong thing and winding up in anaphylactic shock is no laughing matter. However, it's quite depressing going down, say, the candy aisle at your local grocer and trying to find something you can have. Pretty much every candy bar has that death stamp of "may contain peanuts and/or tree nuts." If you are one of the people who has this particular physiological adversity, that has got to be a rather deflating task, picking up each candy bar one at a time, only to say, "Nope, move along" at every step.
I would think it'd make more sense to have the exact opposite labelling philosophy. Assume every candy bar is made of peanut-based arsenic death unless you see a bright yellow-and-red label happily proclaiming "I'm Peanut-Free!" That would make everyone's jobs a lot easier, both the chocolate-deprived peanut-allergic consumer, and the manufacturer who has to ensure the graphic artist didn't forget to make the label obvious enough to avoid a lawsuit.
That, however, is candy. Other products can stay the way they are. Since almost every chocolatier known to man uses nuts at some point, that's a different animal. But keeping a label on a product you would have no expectations of the presence of nuts - say, a bag of white rice or quick-dry cement - that's still necessary.
Though it does speak volumes about the state of our world when a bag of Salted Peanuts must be labeled with "contains peanuts."
....well, maybe.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
On Dignity and Wal*Martians
Say what you want about Wal*Mart and their corporate practices. That's beside the point.
There is one thing that cannot be disputed about the ultra-mega-mart: it seems to be a magnet for freaks the likes of which Hot Topic patrons would gawk at.
I don't mean every customer, of course. I shop there, myself, and consider myself to be only slightly touched in the head (although that topic is up for review next month). However, the per capita rate of utter loonies is alarming within the walls of Sam Walton's first brainchild.
Sam's Club isn't affected, so I can only blame the rather creepy and all-too inviting smiley face which seems to adorn 90% of all displays in the store. Perhaps the slogan plastered on the outside of the building does the trick. Although, out of context, whenever I see that cursive "Always," the first thing to pop in my mind is not "low prices," but rather "feminine hygiene product."
(See paragraph #3 regarding my mental stability.)
Whatever the root cause may be, it is almost inevitable that on any given trip to the magical land of rollbacks, you will encounter at least one of these "Wal*Martians."
These people must not own mirrors.
There's even a website dedicated to their mockery (www.peopleofwalmart.com) which captures the magic of these close encounters of the absurd kind for all time. I dearly hope any real Martians don't have access to the internet. Otherwise, all hope for our species is lost if that's mistaken for worship or admiration of any kind.
I would normally abhor writing about a topic that involves sentences such as "these people" and "all hope for humanity is lost." Or implies I might support the benefits of genetic weeding for the benefit of the species. However, after you have encountered a Wal*Martian, I'm certain that you would agree. At least in part.
Should you meet one of these beings in person, I have devised a short list of safety practices that should be followed.
1.) No Flash Photography. Or even non-flash photography, for that matter. Not only is it rude to take someone's picture without their permission, but keep in mind this is not a wild animal we're taking images of. It might think you like it.
2.) Do Not Engage It In Conversation. Far, far worse than taking a picture would be to speak with the strange being. You may end up with a stalker who wishes to discuss nothing more than their opinions on “fashion” (as their species interprets it) or provide a justification (as it were) of why their dress and/or behavior is acceptable in human society.
3.) Maintain a Safe Distance. Wal*Martians can be classified in the “unstable” category. Any person who has checked that much of their dignity at the door before appearing in public - and worse, is proud of the display they’re presenting - should be treated with the same minimum safe distance as applied to someone wearing a muddy pink bunny costume missing its head carrying an aluminum bat. (Which I have seen at the store.)
4.) Avoid Contaminated Foodstuffs. In the event a Wal*Martian enters an aisle containing consumable products, make a note on your grocery list to pick it up later at another store. The possible combinations of biotoxins emitted from exposed bodily orifices is alarming, and does little to improve the flavor of the products (in most cases).
Following the above-outlined safety protocols will ensure a pleasant visit to the store, and keep any instance of a Wal*Martian’s presence firmly rooted in your mind as a comical memory, rather than require a quarantine visit to your local hospital and/or years of rehabilitative psychotherapy.
There is one thing that cannot be disputed about the ultra-mega-mart: it seems to be a magnet for freaks the likes of which Hot Topic patrons would gawk at.
I don't mean every customer, of course. I shop there, myself, and consider myself to be only slightly touched in the head (although that topic is up for review next month). However, the per capita rate of utter loonies is alarming within the walls of Sam Walton's first brainchild.
Sam's Club isn't affected, so I can only blame the rather creepy and all-too inviting smiley face which seems to adorn 90% of all displays in the store. Perhaps the slogan plastered on the outside of the building does the trick. Although, out of context, whenever I see that cursive "Always," the first thing to pop in my mind is not "low prices," but rather "feminine hygiene product."
(See paragraph #3 regarding my mental stability.)
Whatever the root cause may be, it is almost inevitable that on any given trip to the magical land of rollbacks, you will encounter at least one of these "Wal*Martians."
These people must not own mirrors.
There's even a website dedicated to their mockery (www.peopleofwalmart.com) which captures the magic of these close encounters of the absurd kind for all time. I dearly hope any real Martians don't have access to the internet. Otherwise, all hope for our species is lost if that's mistaken for worship or admiration of any kind.
I would normally abhor writing about a topic that involves sentences such as "these people" and "all hope for humanity is lost." Or implies I might support the benefits of genetic weeding for the benefit of the species. However, after you have encountered a Wal*Martian, I'm certain that you would agree. At least in part.
Should you meet one of these beings in person, I have devised a short list of safety practices that should be followed.
1.) No Flash Photography. Or even non-flash photography, for that matter. Not only is it rude to take someone's picture without their permission, but keep in mind this is not a wild animal we're taking images of. It might think you like it.
2.) Do Not Engage It In Conversation. Far, far worse than taking a picture would be to speak with the strange being. You may end up with a stalker who wishes to discuss nothing more than their opinions on “fashion” (as their species interprets it) or provide a justification (as it were) of why their dress and/or behavior is acceptable in human society.
3.) Maintain a Safe Distance. Wal*Martians can be classified in the “unstable” category. Any person who has checked that much of their dignity at the door before appearing in public - and worse, is proud of the display they’re presenting - should be treated with the same minimum safe distance as applied to someone wearing a muddy pink bunny costume missing its head carrying an aluminum bat. (Which I have seen at the store.)
4.) Avoid Contaminated Foodstuffs. In the event a Wal*Martian enters an aisle containing consumable products, make a note on your grocery list to pick it up later at another store. The possible combinations of biotoxins emitted from exposed bodily orifices is alarming, and does little to improve the flavor of the products (in most cases).
Following the above-outlined safety protocols will ensure a pleasant visit to the store, and keep any instance of a Wal*Martian’s presence firmly rooted in your mind as a comical memory, rather than require a quarantine visit to your local hospital and/or years of rehabilitative psychotherapy.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
On Vegetables
It has come to my attention that many people who know me think I am incapable of enjoying anything green, unless it is atop at least a quarter-pound of grilled cow. The fact that my Holy Trifecta of Favorite Dishes consists of pizza, cheeseburgers, and fried chicken seems to have given them the wrong idea.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
I’m quite fond of vegetables of all sorts. Fungi, too. Raw mushrooms add a wonderful earthiness to salads. I’ve been known to carve a swath of destruction through a fair number of veggie platters, particularly if Ranch dressing or warm spinach-artichoke dip is present. While some might argue that dip invalidates the point of eating vegetables to begin with, I beg to differ.
After all, they’re still in my stomach, aren’t they?
There are a few lines I will draw in the sand, however. Sprouts, for one. Why anyone would think adding a handful of spindly little organic wires to a salad or sandwich would be a good idea is beyond me. Primarily considering that the organic wires in question add an overpowering taste of topsoil to the dish.
Cucumbers, cream cheese, and dirt. Why yes, this sounds appetizing!
(Speaking of which, a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich is fantastic, if you’ve never tried it.)
I’ve also been ridiculed about having a hidden agenda against vegetarian and vegan cuisine. Once again, dead wrong. I find my palate drawn to where the flavor is, and there is a vast library of extremely delicious vegetarian and vegan dishes. I’m very partial to Indian cuisine, which, in many regions, is almost completely vegetarian. Simply YouTube “Indian vegetarian dishes,” watch a few, and try to tell me your mouth isn’t watering.
That having been said, I do find it comical when proponents of vegetarian lifestyles who claim that processed ingredients are cancerous to your system turn around and buy meatless “chicken” tenders made with textured soy protein. Hmm. I hate to be the one to say it, but tofu doesn’t look like that without a lot of mechanical intervention and dyes.
I suppose the biggest factor that leads people to the false opinion that “I hate vegetables” comes from my - how shall I say - rather vocal protest of “phony things.” Like the aforementioned meatless “chicken” tenders.
Or veggie burgers. “You won’t even notice the meat is gone!”
Yes. Yes, I will.
I don’t care how far science progresses, vegetables will never be able to recreate that primal joy of meat juice. Or, as those readers who subscribe to vegetarian and/or vegan lifestyles might prefer I say, liquefied animal fat and blood.
Yep, I said it. That’s what makes your burger juicy. Queasy? I could recommend a few good vegetarian cookbooks. The Book of Tofu is an excellent resource, and a brilliant one is in the works out of an Indian restaurant in Britain named Prashad recently. If you order it from them, tell Kaushy I sent you. No sense in wasting a perfectly good plug.
Don’t act so surprised when I say that I own a copy of The Book of Tofu and have already made several recipes from The Prashad Cookbook (there are several on their YouTube channel and Facebook page). They’re all quite delicious, I assure you. Provided you aren’t one to vomit at the idea of eating a cooked pea to begin with. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that aspect.
But if you try and tell me that Gardenburger with tofurkey bacon and “melted” vegetable protein “cheese” on a gluten-free vegan bun will convert me from my carnivorous ways, you’re sorely mistaken.
Shameless Book Plugs:
The Book of Tofu
http://www.amazon.com/The-Book-Tofu-William-Shurtleff/dp/1580080138
The Prashad Cookbook
http://www.amazon.com/Prashad-Cookbook-Kaushy-Patel/dp/1444734717
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
I’m quite fond of vegetables of all sorts. Fungi, too. Raw mushrooms add a wonderful earthiness to salads. I’ve been known to carve a swath of destruction through a fair number of veggie platters, particularly if Ranch dressing or warm spinach-artichoke dip is present. While some might argue that dip invalidates the point of eating vegetables to begin with, I beg to differ.
After all, they’re still in my stomach, aren’t they?
There are a few lines I will draw in the sand, however. Sprouts, for one. Why anyone would think adding a handful of spindly little organic wires to a salad or sandwich would be a good idea is beyond me. Primarily considering that the organic wires in question add an overpowering taste of topsoil to the dish.
Cucumbers, cream cheese, and dirt. Why yes, this sounds appetizing!
(Speaking of which, a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich is fantastic, if you’ve never tried it.)
I’ve also been ridiculed about having a hidden agenda against vegetarian and vegan cuisine. Once again, dead wrong. I find my palate drawn to where the flavor is, and there is a vast library of extremely delicious vegetarian and vegan dishes. I’m very partial to Indian cuisine, which, in many regions, is almost completely vegetarian. Simply YouTube “Indian vegetarian dishes,” watch a few, and try to tell me your mouth isn’t watering.
That having been said, I do find it comical when proponents of vegetarian lifestyles who claim that processed ingredients are cancerous to your system turn around and buy meatless “chicken” tenders made with textured soy protein. Hmm. I hate to be the one to say it, but tofu doesn’t look like that without a lot of mechanical intervention and dyes.
I suppose the biggest factor that leads people to the false opinion that “I hate vegetables” comes from my - how shall I say - rather vocal protest of “phony things.” Like the aforementioned meatless “chicken” tenders.
Or veggie burgers. “You won’t even notice the meat is gone!”
Yes. Yes, I will.
I don’t care how far science progresses, vegetables will never be able to recreate that primal joy of meat juice. Or, as those readers who subscribe to vegetarian and/or vegan lifestyles might prefer I say, liquefied animal fat and blood.
Yep, I said it. That’s what makes your burger juicy. Queasy? I could recommend a few good vegetarian cookbooks. The Book of Tofu is an excellent resource, and a brilliant one is in the works out of an Indian restaurant in Britain named Prashad recently. If you order it from them, tell Kaushy I sent you. No sense in wasting a perfectly good plug.
Don’t act so surprised when I say that I own a copy of The Book of Tofu and have already made several recipes from The Prashad Cookbook (there are several on their YouTube channel and Facebook page). They’re all quite delicious, I assure you. Provided you aren’t one to vomit at the idea of eating a cooked pea to begin with. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that aspect.
But if you try and tell me that Gardenburger with tofurkey bacon and “melted” vegetable protein “cheese” on a gluten-free vegan bun will convert me from my carnivorous ways, you’re sorely mistaken.
Shameless Book Plugs:
The Book of Tofu
http://www.amazon.com/The-Book-Tofu-William-Shurtleff/dp/1580080138
The Prashad Cookbook
http://www.amazon.com/Prashad-Cookbook-Kaushy-Patel/dp/1444734717
On Shocking Confessions
Some people might be shocked to learn this, but here's the truth: I don't care for breasts.
Legs, those are far more to my liking. Thighs, properly attended to, are as well.
There's just something about breasts that's so.. overdone. Speaking truthfully, they do look amazing, but when all is said and done, I'm left with a feeling of underwhelming "meh."
They get loads of rave reviews, though, particularly after they've gone for a dip. Saucy pictures, sure, but that doesn't mean the real thing actually delivers on what's cranking through the dark parts of the mind when (or if) they are encountered in person.
There's just so many ways they can disappoint, even when they're looking so good.
And contrary to popular belief, bigger breasts are not necessarily better. Oh, sure, if you're stuck with a pair of teeny tiny ones, yes, you definitely feel cheated. But there is definitely a realm of "too big," the sort you can't even fit into your mouth unless you unhinge your jaw.
Jaw injuries (or any injury, for that matter) and breasts are a bad combination. Not to mention that someone is liable to get sued, and that'll just make things awkward for all parties involved.
That’s part of the reason I tend to stay so focused on legs. And thighs. Sure, you still have to worry about winding up with some skinny, unsatisfying legs, but never in my life have I come across one that’s too big, the way breasts can get. Nope. Even those big ol’ fat juicy thighs, not a single one have I ever considered to be “too big,” or even remotely close. Call me strange, if you will, but that’s just how I see things.
But, honestly, I think my general dislike of breasts is because most places just simply cook them to death.
Yes, I've been referring to fried chicken the whole time. You perv.
Legs, those are far more to my liking. Thighs, properly attended to, are as well.
There's just something about breasts that's so.. overdone. Speaking truthfully, they do look amazing, but when all is said and done, I'm left with a feeling of underwhelming "meh."
They get loads of rave reviews, though, particularly after they've gone for a dip. Saucy pictures, sure, but that doesn't mean the real thing actually delivers on what's cranking through the dark parts of the mind when (or if) they are encountered in person.
There's just so many ways they can disappoint, even when they're looking so good.
And contrary to popular belief, bigger breasts are not necessarily better. Oh, sure, if you're stuck with a pair of teeny tiny ones, yes, you definitely feel cheated. But there is definitely a realm of "too big," the sort you can't even fit into your mouth unless you unhinge your jaw.
Jaw injuries (or any injury, for that matter) and breasts are a bad combination. Not to mention that someone is liable to get sued, and that'll just make things awkward for all parties involved.
That’s part of the reason I tend to stay so focused on legs. And thighs. Sure, you still have to worry about winding up with some skinny, unsatisfying legs, but never in my life have I come across one that’s too big, the way breasts can get. Nope. Even those big ol’ fat juicy thighs, not a single one have I ever considered to be “too big,” or even remotely close. Call me strange, if you will, but that’s just how I see things.
But, honestly, I think my general dislike of breasts is because most places just simply cook them to death.
Yes, I've been referring to fried chicken the whole time. You perv.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
On Spirits
I see quite a few spirits on occasion.
Tall ones and short ones, thin ones and fat ones, black ones and clear ones, brown ones and yellow ones. Even the occasional red and blue one, or some other outlandish color.
And you can own any of them, for the right price.
Yes, the liquor store is a fascinating place.
More fascinating than the bottles containing the spirits is what is allowed to go on the bottles. For example, there are no less than fourteen different brands of vodka that claim to be the “world’s finest.” And I can guarantee, from personal experience, that almost all of them lie.
I’ve come up with a theory, you see. The more a liquor, or any alcoholic beverage, for that matter, claims that it is the most refined and amazing thing on Earth, the more you’ll vomit after imbibing it and the worse your hangover will be the morning after.
Even the humble beer isn’t immune to this theory. The name Milwaukee’s Best, for example, is an oxymoron unto itself. Miller High Life claims to be the “Champagne of Beers.” I, for one, tend to refer to it by the generic name that Germans apply to most domestic American beers: Pißwasser.
(For those that don’t speak fluent German, it literally translates to “urine water.”)
Another warning sign is for any potent spirit that comes in a bottle advertised as “unbreakable.” In other words, plastic. This is the industry’s secret language for “deity-awful rot-gut for people prone to getting lit off their posteriors and dropping the container.”
On the other end of the spectrum are the bottles which truly need a warning label, and in this respect, I’m not referring to those government-sanctioned ones about pregnant women who really shouldn’t partake for the sake of their child’s future intellectual development. (Although, judging by the rather sorry state of common sense these days, a little mental impairment might actually help the kiddo fit in.) Nor do I mean the classic “Please Enjoy Responsibly.” No, by a warning label, I mean something along the lines of “Failure to regulate your intake of the contained beverage may result in your regaining consciousness in a different state without your clothes on.”
Not that I’ve ever done that, of course.
My clothes were still on.
Tall ones and short ones, thin ones and fat ones, black ones and clear ones, brown ones and yellow ones. Even the occasional red and blue one, or some other outlandish color.
And you can own any of them, for the right price.
Yes, the liquor store is a fascinating place.
More fascinating than the bottles containing the spirits is what is allowed to go on the bottles. For example, there are no less than fourteen different brands of vodka that claim to be the “world’s finest.” And I can guarantee, from personal experience, that almost all of them lie.
I’ve come up with a theory, you see. The more a liquor, or any alcoholic beverage, for that matter, claims that it is the most refined and amazing thing on Earth, the more you’ll vomit after imbibing it and the worse your hangover will be the morning after.
Even the humble beer isn’t immune to this theory. The name Milwaukee’s Best, for example, is an oxymoron unto itself. Miller High Life claims to be the “Champagne of Beers.” I, for one, tend to refer to it by the generic name that Germans apply to most domestic American beers: Pißwasser.
(For those that don’t speak fluent German, it literally translates to “urine water.”)
Another warning sign is for any potent spirit that comes in a bottle advertised as “unbreakable.” In other words, plastic. This is the industry’s secret language for “deity-awful rot-gut for people prone to getting lit off their posteriors and dropping the container.”
On the other end of the spectrum are the bottles which truly need a warning label, and in this respect, I’m not referring to those government-sanctioned ones about pregnant women who really shouldn’t partake for the sake of their child’s future intellectual development. (Although, judging by the rather sorry state of common sense these days, a little mental impairment might actually help the kiddo fit in.) Nor do I mean the classic “Please Enjoy Responsibly.” No, by a warning label, I mean something along the lines of “Failure to regulate your intake of the contained beverage may result in your regaining consciousness in a different state without your clothes on.”
Not that I’ve ever done that, of course.
My clothes were still on.
On Virginia Beach Weather
I’d like to preface this column with the note that I am not a native of Virginia Beach.
In fact, I’ve only lived here for just over a decade. That may sound like a long time to some folks, but compared to the “lifers” here, it’s not much at all.
I’m learning that being an “outsider” comes with a bit of perspective, too.
For one thing, the map bears a resemblance to my dinner last week. No, I’m not trying to say I had a (very) irregularly shaped slice of pizza. I was referring more specifically to the plateful of spaghetti noodles I unceremoniously dumped on the kitchen floor. (If you’re unfamiliar, check Google Maps. Just don’t get lost in your browser window.)
Whoever designed freeways in the shape of a circle, where the Westbound goes north and east and the Eastbound leads to somewhere in Ohio should be shot.
Further, street names should not change more than twice in a two-mile stretch of uneventful pavement where no mergers occur. This happens disturbingly often in my city. At first, in an effort to combat this challenge, I began giving people directions based off of restaurants. This would have been a brilliant ploy, if the rest of the population of the area possessed my obsessively encyclopedic knowledge of eateries.
Sadly, the majority of them do not. Which is probably better for their health, in the long run.
However, there is one thing I have not yet understood about the citizens of this fine area, and that is the seeming wonderment at the summertime weather.
I am sure that in other parts of the country, "summer at the beach" elicits visions of scantily-clad men and women bounding around the sand with happy smiles pasted on their faces in a seemingly endless string of perfectly sunny days. I suppose that oceanfront fantasy exists somewhere on this planet of ours, but Virginia Beach ain't it. Every day between May 15th and September 3rd, between the hours of 2:45pm and 3:15pm, there is a 50% (or greater) chance of a torrential downpour. It's like clockwork, and has absolutely no bearing on what the weather was before the pummeling rain, nor will it have any effect on the weather after said storm. Yet I still hear “lifers” of the area exclaim their surprise that it rained. Worse, that their windows were down. One person in particular, whose name shall remain withheld to protect any hint of public image they may retain, has made that comment nearly every time it rains in the summer over the last five years I’ve known them.
One might think that a person would figure out the pattern after having their interior soaked thirty or forty times each summer. Of course, every time I start heading down that train of thought, the conductor stops, asks me for my ticket, and politely reminds me that someone has to be posting those YouTube videos where people do incredibly stupid things.... I just never thought I’d actually know one.
I only hope they have a really nice wet/dry shop vac at home.
On Sports
It may come as a shock to you, dear reader, to learn that I am not a rabid fan of nearly any sport.
It's not that I don't get the concepts of these games, or neglect the skill of the athletes involved. No, anybody who can dictate where a 1" diameter white ball will land from 350 yards away, or carry an oval ball across a hundred yard field with eleven angry and armored people eagerly trying to turn them into a flesh pancake is infinitely more skilled and talented than I.
(For anyone who doesn't think golf is a skilled sport, I'd like to see you execute that same level of precision. Go ahead, I'll wait. Or, rather, I won't, just leave me a comment letting me know how well you did.)
It isn't even the fans that can quickly turn game day into a riot that leaves 96 people dead that gets me. (See Hillsborough, UK for that reference.)
It's just that watching most sports is so boring.
I know, I know, I just offended a fair number of readers with that comment. Just take it with a grin and rest assured you won't have to wrestle with me for a good seat at Buffalo Wild Wings on game day. Fight Night is another matter.
Although recently, I saw an ad on YouTube for a sport I decided I could get into. Two four-man teams vying on what looks like a grassy hockey rink trying to fling a ball into what looks like soccer goals at either end of the field.
Oh, did I forget to mention the ball was three feet wide and every player is equipped with a tazer?
See, now THAT would be interesting. I'd imagine the rules and gameplay strategy would look something like this:
Offense: Get the ball into the goal and taze anyone in your way!
Defense: Taze them! Taze them all!
Something tells me that throwing a three-foot wide ball into a goal the size of a small barn would become immensely difficult with four opponents who would be all-too-happy to send 100,000 volts repeatedly through your juicy parts.
Don't get me wrong. I have absolutely zero desire to actually play this Ultimate Tazer Ball (unless it comes out on Xbox 360). But considering the rampant stock of arguably sane athletes already in existence (see: UFC, rugby), I don't think it'd be very difficult to set up a few franchise teams and have it telecast on ESPN 71 for our own giggling entertainment. We might have to petition the Sports Powers That Be to make this a reality.
I just hope nobody names their team something horrible, such as "Lightning."
It's not that I don't get the concepts of these games, or neglect the skill of the athletes involved. No, anybody who can dictate where a 1" diameter white ball will land from 350 yards away, or carry an oval ball across a hundred yard field with eleven angry and armored people eagerly trying to turn them into a flesh pancake is infinitely more skilled and talented than I.
(For anyone who doesn't think golf is a skilled sport, I'd like to see you execute that same level of precision. Go ahead, I'll wait. Or, rather, I won't, just leave me a comment letting me know how well you did.)
It isn't even the fans that can quickly turn game day into a riot that leaves 96 people dead that gets me. (See Hillsborough, UK for that reference.)
It's just that watching most sports is so boring.
I know, I know, I just offended a fair number of readers with that comment. Just take it with a grin and rest assured you won't have to wrestle with me for a good seat at Buffalo Wild Wings on game day. Fight Night is another matter.
Although recently, I saw an ad on YouTube for a sport I decided I could get into. Two four-man teams vying on what looks like a grassy hockey rink trying to fling a ball into what looks like soccer goals at either end of the field.
Oh, did I forget to mention the ball was three feet wide and every player is equipped with a tazer?
See, now THAT would be interesting. I'd imagine the rules and gameplay strategy would look something like this:
Offense: Get the ball into the goal and taze anyone in your way!
Defense: Taze them! Taze them all!
Something tells me that throwing a three-foot wide ball into a goal the size of a small barn would become immensely difficult with four opponents who would be all-too-happy to send 100,000 volts repeatedly through your juicy parts.
Don't get me wrong. I have absolutely zero desire to actually play this Ultimate Tazer Ball (unless it comes out on Xbox 360). But considering the rampant stock of arguably sane athletes already in existence (see: UFC, rugby), I don't think it'd be very difficult to set up a few franchise teams and have it telecast on ESPN 71 for our own giggling entertainment. We might have to petition the Sports Powers That Be to make this a reality.
I just hope nobody names their team something horrible, such as "Lightning."
Saturday, May 19, 2012
On American English Dialects
I would like to point out that not all American English is the same.
Most people already know that American English and British English differ quite a bit. However, considering our fine country is the size of seventeen point nine Europes (without counting Alaska or Rhode Island), it should come as no surprise that simple, everyday words have, in some cases, vastly different meanings depending upon where they are said.
Take, for example:
Pop - 1.) carbonated beverage (Atlantic Northeast). 2.) male parental figure (rest of the country).
Mirra - 1.) a reflective wall fixture used for self-examination (rural Southeast). 2.) championship bicycle rider (rest of the country).
These are not the only examples of words with transient meaning, and it seems to cross all aspects of life, as well. Another example:
Nader - 1.) a funnel of high-speed damaging winds (Midwest). 2.) irritating politician (rest of the country).
Delving even further into the phenomenon, location doesn’t seem to be the only factor involved in things being lost in translation. Two people from the same geographic region could say the exact same words to each other, and each receive a different mental image, based solely upon something as simple as interests. I propose this may be part of the rickety communication bridge between married couples. Please review the following illustration:
Mini - 1.) a small, overpriced, and relatively rare car (automotive people). 2.) Mickey’s girlfriend or a ditzy Playboy model (everyone else).
Husband Says: “I’m going to take my Mini for a ride.”
Wife Hears: “Please remain home and prepare dinner whilst my mistress and I engage in extramarital affairs.”
Wife Says: “The hell you are!”
Husband Says: “What did I say?”
Please don’t assume that the above example is sexist. For example, in the above illustration, if the ‘husband’ had simply added the word “Cooper” to his sentence, he probably would have had his joyride without incident. Although he may have been tasked with bringing home dinner while he was out.
So next time you hear someone say “Pop’s in Minnie,” take a second to reflect upon possible alternate meanings before jumping to conclusions. They may just be trying to tell you that there’s soda in the car.
On Mobile Blogging
Apparently, it is not enough that there are websites (such as this one) whose sole purpose in existing is to allow people with no real qualifications or right (such as myself) to spout off about, well, whatever.
No, this is not enough.
Now, there must be a way for this inane blabbering to occur whenever a thought strikes me. Yes, I am referring to mobile blogging.
As it is, I am typing this blog post on my phone. You don't want to know anything further about the geographic location of me or my phone, although I'm sure your vivid imaginations can come up with some creative theories.
Whatever it is, wherever I am, now, I can whip out my phone and start drafting a post so that the (questionable) brilliance of whatever idea that struck me does not have time to mellow, does not give me time to ponder whether or not it was, in fact, the best of ideas, nor for me to truly have a chance and re-read what is quite possibly the longest run-on sentence typed on a mobile phone since last night.
In short, this is probably a bad thing. I'm going to love it.
No, this is not enough.
Now, there must be a way for this inane blabbering to occur whenever a thought strikes me. Yes, I am referring to mobile blogging.
As it is, I am typing this blog post on my phone. You don't want to know anything further about the geographic location of me or my phone, although I'm sure your vivid imaginations can come up with some creative theories.
Whatever it is, wherever I am, now, I can whip out my phone and start drafting a post so that the (questionable) brilliance of whatever idea that struck me does not have time to mellow, does not give me time to ponder whether or not it was, in fact, the best of ideas, nor for me to truly have a chance and re-read what is quite possibly the longest run-on sentence typed on a mobile phone since last night.
In short, this is probably a bad thing. I'm going to love it.
Friday, May 18, 2012
On Corporate Announcements (And Monkeys)
Today, I received an email from Corporate in my place of employment that could only be described as tickling.
The context of the email was to solicit suggestions to streamline day-to-day operations, but this being the third email in the series, the tone was more of a “don’t be afraid to call things out like they are.”That wasn’t the tickling part. One sentence in it, however, was.
It read, “Perhaps you’re afraid of being beaten by 4 monkeys.”
Which immediately set my mind adrift by such a specification.
Why would exactly four monkeys accost an employee for speaking up? Perhaps this is their way of telling you, subtly, that you will not be beaten by merely four monkeys for voicing your opinion. You may, however, be attacked by an elite ninja squad of three (or fewer) highly-trained monkeys, or worse, assaulted by a thronging mass of as many monkeys as Corporate can afford to throw at you.
And considering the bonus pay of our CEO last year alone was enough to give every single employee a $1/hour raise for the entire year (assuming, of course, a 40-hour work week and no overtime) with a considerable amount left over, I’m sure that would buy quite a few executive attack monkeys.
Which led me to wonder.. could such a thing even exist?
So, of course, I had to research it.
According to pets.costhelper.com, the cost of acquiring a monkey legally in the United States is between $4,000 and $8,000 each, depending upon species and age. This does not take into account any equipment (such as a cage) or upkeep costs (food, attention, etc.) that would be involved.
And while monkeys appear to be fond of flinging distasteful biological waste at random targets, that isn’t exactly what we have in mind. Targeted attacks would require specialist training. As far as I can tell, training a monkey to perform a task can run upwards of $1,500 if you hire someone to do it. Since ninja attack monkeys aren’t exactly within the realm of legality, I can only imagine the cost would be significantly higher. So, for the purposes of this hypothetical scenario, I decided that twice the average training cost would be sufficient (based purely on statistics I pulled out of my own colon, of course).
With that being said, I’m sure any monkey that would be capable of attacking someone with any reasonable expected damage would run closer to the $8,000 end of the spectrum. Plus training, that’s $11,000 per Corporate ninja attack monkey.
While we’ve been somewhat assured that we won’t be attacked by a squad of four monkeys, that leaves effectively every other number conceivable (within the budget) open to possibility.
An elite squad of three pummeling primates would then run approximately $33,000. That’s nearly the annual salary of most employees I know, and considerably more than the rest. I’m sure training a mob of cheaper monkeys would be more efficient, perhaps as low as $5,500 per monkey, which would then mean the same thirty-three grand could pay for a small gang of six less-subtle simians.
I immediately armed myself with a letter opener after figuring out these numbers. Considering the obvious excess in finances which could afford such an exorbitant bonus for our charming CEO - who sent the email with said subtle hint of impending ape assault - the possibilities of being accosted by monkeys in varying stages of training (as long as there aren’t four of them) was becoming alarmingly real.
Or he could have said something like “don’t worry about retaliation.” That would have been much more reassuring.
On Being a Geek and Fixing Things
Let me begin, first off, by saying I love technology in all shapes and forms. If it has buttons, or a touchscreen, odds are likely I want it.
Take, for example, my desk at work. Two monitors, check. External touchscreen PDA synced to act as a tertiary monitor, check. Touchscreen digital photo frame hacked to act as quaternary monitor, also check.
I am, to mince words, a geek.
I also love fixing people’s technological problems and creating solutions where none previously existed. Why? It’s a puzzle thing, to me. And likely some facet of a deeply-rooted codependent mentality exhibiting itself in a medium that’s comfortable to yours truly. But that’s neither here nor there.
The point of this post, ladies and gentlemen, is about reason.
Simply because I am a gadget geek and technophile does not mean I have an encyclopedic knowledge of everything with a power cable that has been manufactured in the last 40 years. I once had someone (who shall remain nameless) call me quite a few foul names and inform me I had “a bad attitude” about things when I told her I wasn’t familiar with her sixteen-year-old dot matrix printer from Korea’s problem with installing drivers onto Windows XP.
Quite frankly, I wasn’t aware that a sixteen-year-old dot matrix printer could still even connect to modern computers, not without some serious hacker-level skills (which this person does not have).
I am also incapable of making miracles happen. Hardware failure is just that. A failure of the hardware to perform to its originally designated task. In other words, it’s broken. Tweaked out, tripping, stupid, water-logged, corrupted, and hacked things.. those I can work with. Broken is broken. Fire a thousand nine millimeter rounds into an engine, and even the best mechanic won’t be able to get it up and running again without replacing some parts. Why? Because they’re broken.
Informing you of such misfortune does not make me incapable. Nor does it make me an “idiot” or mean I have a “bad attitude.” Ask any of the number of people whose gadgets, cell phones, laptops, and computers that I’ve brought back from the grave and they’ll attest to it. There are limits to even the best repair-person’s skills.
Although, I must admit.. part of me wants to get my hands on that Korean dot matrix printer and see what those characters would look like on a 6x4 grid per letter.
On Moving Parked Cars
I don’t think I will ever understand people who move their parked car while on lunch at work.
Everyone I’ve asked has said something akin to their reasoning being “so it will be closer when I leave.”
This doesn’t make any sense. As someone who is, admittedly, highly averse to exercise in any way, shape, or form, the extra effort expended in moving a parked car just doesn’t justify getting to my car sixty seconds faster.
Why not? Here’s how it pans out.
On a typical day, you arrive at work. Get out of your car, walk to your regularly scheduled employee duties, finish your day, then walk back to your car. Two trips.
However, if you move your car, your day looks something like this: arrive at work, get out of car, walk to your regularly scheduled employee duties, detract valuable time (which could have been spent relaxing and/or actually enjoying your food) from your lunch to walk back to your car, move it 150 feet, walk back to your regularly scheduled employee duties, finish your day, then walk back to your car - again! - to go home.
This may sound insignificant. Silly, even, especially to those of you who would rather prefer to see the other end of eighty and take your health seriously. To those of you, I say, kudos. If that had been presented by at least one person polled as an underlying reason, or even a fringe benefit, perhaps, of moving said parked car, I could accept it. It does provide a reason to get up and move and do that whole heart-rate-increase thing (provided you walk faster than an intoxicated water buffalo, which seems to be rare in most of the places I’ve worked). That, to me, makes sense.
Nearly doubling your foot traffic in an illogical effort to make things easier on yourself, however, does not.
In the corporate world, that’s called a redundancy and usually leads to someone (or several people) getting laid off. Unless, of course, said corporation is based in America, in which case the person who engineered the plan is given a raise and those who actually have to do the walking are told to walk faster and farther for the same pay.
Everyone I’ve asked has said something akin to their reasoning being “so it will be closer when I leave.”
This doesn’t make any sense. As someone who is, admittedly, highly averse to exercise in any way, shape, or form, the extra effort expended in moving a parked car just doesn’t justify getting to my car sixty seconds faster.
Why not? Here’s how it pans out.
On a typical day, you arrive at work. Get out of your car, walk to your regularly scheduled employee duties, finish your day, then walk back to your car. Two trips.
However, if you move your car, your day looks something like this: arrive at work, get out of car, walk to your regularly scheduled employee duties, detract valuable time (which could have been spent relaxing and/or actually enjoying your food) from your lunch to walk back to your car, move it 150 feet, walk back to your regularly scheduled employee duties, finish your day, then walk back to your car - again! - to go home.
This may sound insignificant. Silly, even, especially to those of you who would rather prefer to see the other end of eighty and take your health seriously. To those of you, I say, kudos. If that had been presented by at least one person polled as an underlying reason, or even a fringe benefit, perhaps, of moving said parked car, I could accept it. It does provide a reason to get up and move and do that whole heart-rate-increase thing (provided you walk faster than an intoxicated water buffalo, which seems to be rare in most of the places I’ve worked). That, to me, makes sense.
Nearly doubling your foot traffic in an illogical effort to make things easier on yourself, however, does not.
In the corporate world, that’s called a redundancy and usually leads to someone (or several people) getting laid off. Unless, of course, said corporation is based in America, in which case the person who engineered the plan is given a raise and those who actually have to do the walking are told to walk faster and farther for the same pay.
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