...one flying baby can spoil an entire meal.
Have a wonderful holiday!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Have a nice holiday
And remember...no matter what you're serving...
...one flying baby can spoil an entire meal.
Have a wonderful holiday!
...one flying baby can spoil an entire meal.
Have a wonderful holiday!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Pull Up Your Goddamn Pants You Fucking Moron: more butt humor for the masses
I remember back when the whole 'men wearing baggy pants' look came on board. It made me sad. All that fine denim-clad s-curved hine walking around for years was suddenly hidden from view inside over-sized board shorts*. It didn't seem fair. But after some reflection, I had to admit that not all men were meant to wear pants that fit correctly. If there's one thing I do NOT miss about the late 70's (aside from 'everything') it's men with big sloppy flubba-butts wearing shrink wrap pants. Man that was just nasty. NASTY!
Still, here's the deal: they were wearing pants. There was fabric between them and me. Not a lot, but its psychological distance we're talking about here as much as it is actual dernier, OK? You knew that stuff was CONTAINED. It wasn't going to suddenly break loose and run around going WOOWOOWOOWOOWOO like the Three Stooges.
Most importantly, you could rest assured** that you wouldn't ever accidentally have to SEE ASS.
And now this-and by 'this' I mean 'guys who wear their pants below their whole entire butt'. Not saggin'. I am not talking about saggin'. I mean the whole butt is hanging out of the back of the pants. The ENTIRE BUTT. HANGING OUT. ALL OF IT.
I don't know what this look is supposed to be conveying or who it's supposed to be emulating. All juggalo guys wear their pants this way; which is of course as one naturally expects from the developmentally disabled.
can you pick out which one... a. is only 14 years younger than his mother b. grew up in a single wide c. changed his name legally to 'Violent Hatchetman'?
But wearing your pants as though you've just filled them with shit isn't limited to the halt and the lame. Sometimes you see hip-hop looking guys rocking this look, sometimes meth-heads, dorkboys, rednecks... it just doesn't seem to matter.
For example, when I was in downtown Silverton last summer I saw this hipster kid coming down the street; black eyeliner, Hitler hair and all.
He was wearing a belt.
Cinched up tight.
BELOW HIS ASS.
He could not have pulled his pants up by tugging on the waistband in other words; he wasn't sagging. No, not in the least was he sagging. Them things were practically tattooed on. No, homeslice was doing this DELIBERATELY. Now even though I realized I was in downtown Silverton, smack dab inn the middle of the couture universe, I'm still trying and failing to cope with the sight of this Christmas tree farmers' slutty little 17 year old son taking tiny duckie steps down the sidewalk with his ENTIRE ASS HANGING OUT OF HIS PANTS.
I had no problem with the view as he came toward me. He was cute. Gave me a 'sup?' little nod, even. Hell, once he got close enough you could make out some dick-cleavage. I am all for dick cleavage. I am a huge fan of dick cleavage. But once he passed by I turned around to scope the back pasture and there was, just...... you know.
I cannot begin to describe what a complete buzzkill it was.
Guys, its stupid looking. And it's not even about the ass. It's
-well, actually most of the time, it IS about the ass. Like women and whale tails, it always seems to be the men whose butt you never, never want to imagine seeing who wear their pants like this. Still, you have to take into account the big picture. The whole enchilada. It's about the ass AND the underpants. Your hind end might be smokin hot; I'll never know. I won't care either. You know why? Because you're wearing guy's underpants over it.
Men need to not bother wearing underpants. Mens underpants are bad. They are pointless and bunchy and ugly. I don't even know why men wear underpants. You might think they're keeping your junk corralled; I say save your cash because thats already a lost cause, bucko. Brand new, mens underpants are at best depressing and vaguely medical looking. Once you run them through the wash a couple of times you lose all that sexy. You end up with a sexy which is a kind of 'are these my grandpas?' sexy. This is not a good sexy to have.
Do we see what I'm getting at here? Baggy wore the fuck out skivvies are what I'm getting at here. Look through your underpants drawer, guys. Do they really convey anything close to a 'come and get it' vibe? No they do not. They convey a 'my mom shops at Sears' vibe. Combine that with a less than optimum caboose and pants that hang down around mid-thigh and make you walk like you have a dozen bagels packed up your ass and what one is left with is the exact opposite of 'Let me enthusiastically sire many healthy children upon you'.
Now maybe if you're a 13 year old girl this kind of 'Woo! My butt is HANGING OUT!' retardation seems all daring and bad and therefore terribly alluring...the problem being that what you've just accomplished is to impress 13 year old girl. I mean, I once WAS a 13 year old girl. That's just....no. Guys, seriously. No matter how gross your ass is or nasty your underpants are, you can and should be aiming a LOT higher than that.
__________________
*right, Zack? Uh huh.
**you see what I did there? huh?
*** See! I did it again! did you see? did you get that?
Still, here's the deal: they were wearing pants. There was fabric between them and me. Not a lot, but its psychological distance we're talking about here as much as it is actual dernier, OK? You knew that stuff was CONTAINED. It wasn't going to suddenly break loose and run around going WOOWOOWOOWOOWOO like the Three Stooges.
Most importantly, you could rest assured** that you wouldn't ever accidentally have to SEE ASS.
And now this-and by 'this' I mean 'guys who wear their pants below their whole entire butt'. Not saggin'. I am not talking about saggin'. I mean the whole butt is hanging out of the back of the pants. The ENTIRE BUTT. HANGING OUT. ALL OF IT.
I don't know what this look is supposed to be conveying or who it's supposed to be emulating. All juggalo guys wear their pants this way; which is of course as one naturally expects from the developmentally disabled.
can you pick out which one... a. is only 14 years younger than his mother b. grew up in a single wide c. changed his name legally to 'Violent Hatchetman'? But wearing your pants as though you've just filled them with shit isn't limited to the halt and the lame. Sometimes you see hip-hop looking guys rocking this look, sometimes meth-heads, dorkboys, rednecks... it just doesn't seem to matter.
For example, when I was in downtown Silverton last summer I saw this hipster kid coming down the street; black eyeliner, Hitler hair and all.
He was wearing a belt.
Cinched up tight.
BELOW HIS ASS.
He could not have pulled his pants up by tugging on the waistband in other words; he wasn't sagging. No, not in the least was he sagging. Them things were practically tattooed on. No, homeslice was doing this DELIBERATELY. Now even though I realized I was in downtown Silverton, smack dab inn the middle of the couture universe, I'm still trying and failing to cope with the sight of this Christmas tree farmers' slutty little 17 year old son taking tiny duckie steps down the sidewalk with his ENTIRE ASS HANGING OUT OF HIS PANTS.
I had no problem with the view as he came toward me. He was cute. Gave me a 'sup?' little nod, even. Hell, once he got close enough you could make out some dick-cleavage. I am all for dick cleavage. I am a huge fan of dick cleavage. But once he passed by I turned around to scope the back pasture and there was, just...... you know.
I cannot begin to describe what a complete buzzkill it was.
Guys, its stupid looking. And it's not even about the ass. It's
-well, actually most of the time, it IS about the ass. Like women and whale tails, it always seems to be the men whose butt you never, never want to imagine seeing who wear their pants like this. Still, you have to take into account the big picture. The whole enchilada. It's about the ass AND the underpants. Your hind end might be smokin hot; I'll never know. I won't care either. You know why? Because you're wearing guy's underpants over it.
Men need to not bother wearing underpants. Mens underpants are bad. They are pointless and bunchy and ugly. I don't even know why men wear underpants. You might think they're keeping your junk corralled; I say save your cash because thats already a lost cause, bucko. Brand new, mens underpants are at best depressing and vaguely medical looking. Once you run them through the wash a couple of times you lose all that sexy. You end up with a sexy which is a kind of 'are these my grandpas?' sexy. This is not a good sexy to have.
Do we see what I'm getting at here? Baggy wore the fuck out skivvies are what I'm getting at here. Look through your underpants drawer, guys. Do they really convey anything close to a 'come and get it' vibe? No they do not. They convey a 'my mom shops at Sears' vibe. Combine that with a less than optimum caboose and pants that hang down around mid-thigh and make you walk like you have a dozen bagels packed up your ass and what one is left with is the exact opposite of 'Let me enthusiastically sire many healthy children upon you'.
Now maybe if you're a 13 year old girl this kind of 'Woo! My butt is HANGING OUT!' retardation seems all daring and bad and therefore terribly alluring...the problem being that what you've just accomplished is to impress 13 year old girl. I mean, I once WAS a 13 year old girl. That's just....no. Guys, seriously. No matter how gross your ass is or nasty your underpants are, you can and should be aiming a LOT higher than that.
__________________
*right, Zack? Uh huh.
**you see what I did there? huh?
*** See! I did it again! did you see? did you get that?
Friday, December 04, 2009
Green Marmot Vexed By An Hundred Sandwich
One of the most interesting things you will ever go through is a colonoscopy, although this is hearsay on my part since I went through mine passed out cold. From what I am told, I woke up midway through the procedure (I have no conscious memory of this whatsoever) facing the screen where the drama of my lower intestinal tract was showing and loudly exclaimed 'Is that me? Oh wow! That is so cool!' and then fell back asleep. Now I wish I'd been awake enough to remember just what it is I saw that was so interesting. It could have been Amelia Earhart. I'll never know.
As it turns out I have four diverticules. A diverticule is a pocket-like rupture in the tissue of the intestinal lining.
OK fine. You know those big innertubes you use for river rafting, and how they'll get a weak place in the rubber and get this big weird bulgy part that bloops out? That's a diverticule. Or it would be if it were a colon. And what we should all take away from this is that you should never use your colon as a form of alternative watercraft.Of course you should bring your colon along; your colon wants to have fun too, but I mean you should use an innertube, and if in the interim you should have cause to use your colon, then for the love of Pete go ashore. It would be gross if you just stayed there floating down the river grunting out a dump. Instead, do like we did back when I was a kid in Oregon: crap in the front seat of someones car. Some moron always forgets and leaves their window rolled down; it's private, and it's a hell of a lot more convenient than duckwalking up and down the bank all bent over looking for a restroom since most rivers don't have them. The river will still be there when you get back, and nobody will know it was you who hung a loaf on their front seat because you'll be way downstream by the time they find it.
I am given to understand that the major cause of diverticules is too much red meat in the diet, which simply doesn't apply in my case at all. I was a vegetarian for years, and I still avoid animal for the most part. Now as a child of the 60's and 70's of course I ate more than my share of cow, but in my case it had been pressure cooked for three hours beforehand. The result might best be described as slippery; I don't see how it could have massed up enough to blow out the colon of a vole, let alone a person. Still, the fact remains. And theres photographic proof.
Oh yes!
I was offered copies of these Polaroids, in fact. Now what in the hell would I do with something like that? Send them out as Christmas cards? Which now that I come to think about it I wish I had. They were kind of Christmassy. You know, all red and kind of....red, and stuff.
Insides are really red, too. I mean, REALLY RED. I figured they would be pale pink. You remember those medical books with the layered transparencies and how the intestinal tract was pink? Those are wrong. They're red.
When you get a colonoscopy the first thing they do after they pump you full of anaesthetic and you say a bunch of weird stupid shit that you think is really funny but probably isn't and then pass out, is they take an air hose and pump a couple of blasts of air up there to inflate things. I was kind of appalled at how much inflation they can get by doing that; Jesus CHRIST. Take it from me, you could stick a lot of stuff up there and never notice it unless it was square. But if it was stuff like old rubber gloves or margarine you could walk around with that all day long and never notice a thing until you took a crap, and then you'd probably scream.
Anyway, once that's done they take that hose out and then stick another different hose up there that has a fiber optic camera in it. It has a little headlight on it too; and what it lights up is shore nuff red, like I've been saying, and shiny, too. Theres all these little red spidery veins all over the place. To tell the truth though, it pretty much looks like guts. Or one of those party balloons that are all lumpy and are about 2 ft long? If one of those was big enough to walk inside of, and the inside was all covered with wet spar varnish, and was red, and had scary eyeball veins, then that's exactly what it looks like.
Before all this takes place though you have to drink this liquid laxative stuff called phosphorescent citrate of manitoba for two days. This is so they can see the forest through the trees, or at least the forest without all the bear crap laying all over the ground or however that goes. Man does this stuff clean you out. Much to my surprise it tasted pretty good. Kind of like Squirt soda, appropriately enough. You should plan on taking your pants off altogether and sitting on the toilet for that entire couple of days while this stuff does its job since as soon as it goes in, it comes RIGHT OUT. At velocity. And it ain't over till the fat lady sings...or in this case, till the fat lady shits clear for at least an hour. And the fat lady did. The fat lady about took the shine off the enamel. All the trees in that forest blew down.
Besides diverticules I had a couple of polyps. This pleased a certain dark, vile, Lovecraftian part of my psyche: ewwwww. Polypsssssssssssss.
It sounds like something with tentacles and slime that barfs up corrosive acid like those gross deep sea fish that glow in the dark and sneak around at night and lick your steering wheel and go 'wghnnnnn' because they're mutated? And if you have to have something potentially life-threatening growing in your butt it might as well be something with a cool disgusting name, like 'polyps' instead of something with a lame boring name, like 'Dave'. It would be humiliating to die from butt Daves.
Intestinal polyps supposedly can turn into colon cancer. I have no idea how this happens or why. If it actually were a mutated deep-sea fish that barfed up corrosive acid you could appease it with blood sacrifices, but its not, which is why they have to inflate your butt and stick a camera up it. Life is a mystery. In any event they took this electrified cautery thing and lassoed the polyps and sent a charge through and the polyps went 'PFFFT'. I can't say I was displeased at all. When you consider the fact that this completely obviates the need at some future date to remove several yards of colon, sew the anus shut and cut a hole in your side so you can shit in a bag, you got to figure you don't have a whole lot left to bitch about anyway. The disgusting practical joke potential is of course astronomical, but I'll shit in that bag when I come to it.
This procedure takes about an hour, all told. You are completely empty; not having eaten anything for 24 hours will do that to a person. Thanks to modern medical science and a small compressor you now also contain the cubic air mass of a military weather balloon. Combine these factors with the unmistakable aroma of vaporized ass growths and you are now primed to cut the fart of a lifetime. As soon as you wake up and turn over EVERYONE in the office will know what kind of a procedure you just had. And everyone in the parking lot. And passengers on commercial flights. And scientists aboard the international space station. It is both awe-inspiring and humbling.
The human body is a miraculous thing, kids.
As it turns out I have four diverticules. A diverticule is a pocket-like rupture in the tissue of the intestinal lining.
OK fine. You know those big innertubes you use for river rafting, and how they'll get a weak place in the rubber and get this big weird bulgy part that bloops out? That's a diverticule. Or it would be if it were a colon. And what we should all take away from this is that you should never use your colon as a form of alternative watercraft.Of course you should bring your colon along; your colon wants to have fun too, but I mean you should use an innertube, and if in the interim you should have cause to use your colon, then for the love of Pete go ashore. It would be gross if you just stayed there floating down the river grunting out a dump. Instead, do like we did back when I was a kid in Oregon: crap in the front seat of someones car. Some moron always forgets and leaves their window rolled down; it's private, and it's a hell of a lot more convenient than duckwalking up and down the bank all bent over looking for a restroom since most rivers don't have them. The river will still be there when you get back, and nobody will know it was you who hung a loaf on their front seat because you'll be way downstream by the time they find it.
I am given to understand that the major cause of diverticules is too much red meat in the diet, which simply doesn't apply in my case at all. I was a vegetarian for years, and I still avoid animal for the most part. Now as a child of the 60's and 70's of course I ate more than my share of cow, but in my case it had been pressure cooked for three hours beforehand. The result might best be described as slippery; I don't see how it could have massed up enough to blow out the colon of a vole, let alone a person. Still, the fact remains. And theres photographic proof.
Oh yes!
I was offered copies of these Polaroids, in fact. Now what in the hell would I do with something like that? Send them out as Christmas cards? Which now that I come to think about it I wish I had. They were kind of Christmassy. You know, all red and kind of....red, and stuff.
Insides are really red, too. I mean, REALLY RED. I figured they would be pale pink. You remember those medical books with the layered transparencies and how the intestinal tract was pink? Those are wrong. They're red.
When you get a colonoscopy the first thing they do after they pump you full of anaesthetic and you say a bunch of weird stupid shit that you think is really funny but probably isn't and then pass out, is they take an air hose and pump a couple of blasts of air up there to inflate things. I was kind of appalled at how much inflation they can get by doing that; Jesus CHRIST. Take it from me, you could stick a lot of stuff up there and never notice it unless it was square. But if it was stuff like old rubber gloves or margarine you could walk around with that all day long and never notice a thing until you took a crap, and then you'd probably scream.
Anyway, once that's done they take that hose out and then stick another different hose up there that has a fiber optic camera in it. It has a little headlight on it too; and what it lights up is shore nuff red, like I've been saying, and shiny, too. Theres all these little red spidery veins all over the place. To tell the truth though, it pretty much looks like guts. Or one of those party balloons that are all lumpy and are about 2 ft long? If one of those was big enough to walk inside of, and the inside was all covered with wet spar varnish, and was red, and had scary eyeball veins, then that's exactly what it looks like.
Before all this takes place though you have to drink this liquid laxative stuff called phosphorescent citrate of manitoba for two days. This is so they can see the forest through the trees, or at least the forest without all the bear crap laying all over the ground or however that goes. Man does this stuff clean you out. Much to my surprise it tasted pretty good. Kind of like Squirt soda, appropriately enough. You should plan on taking your pants off altogether and sitting on the toilet for that entire couple of days while this stuff does its job since as soon as it goes in, it comes RIGHT OUT. At velocity. And it ain't over till the fat lady sings...or in this case, till the fat lady shits clear for at least an hour. And the fat lady did. The fat lady about took the shine off the enamel. All the trees in that forest blew down.
Besides diverticules I had a couple of polyps. This pleased a certain dark, vile, Lovecraftian part of my psyche: ewwwww. Polypsssssssssssss.
It sounds like something with tentacles and slime that barfs up corrosive acid like those gross deep sea fish that glow in the dark and sneak around at night and lick your steering wheel and go 'wghnnnnn' because they're mutated? And if you have to have something potentially life-threatening growing in your butt it might as well be something with a cool disgusting name, like 'polyps' instead of something with a lame boring name, like 'Dave'. It would be humiliating to die from butt Daves.
Intestinal polyps supposedly can turn into colon cancer. I have no idea how this happens or why. If it actually were a mutated deep-sea fish that barfed up corrosive acid you could appease it with blood sacrifices, but its not, which is why they have to inflate your butt and stick a camera up it. Life is a mystery. In any event they took this electrified cautery thing and lassoed the polyps and sent a charge through and the polyps went 'PFFFT'. I can't say I was displeased at all. When you consider the fact that this completely obviates the need at some future date to remove several yards of colon, sew the anus shut and cut a hole in your side so you can shit in a bag, you got to figure you don't have a whole lot left to bitch about anyway. The disgusting practical joke potential is of course astronomical, but I'll shit in that bag when I come to it.
This procedure takes about an hour, all told. You are completely empty; not having eaten anything for 24 hours will do that to a person. Thanks to modern medical science and a small compressor you now also contain the cubic air mass of a military weather balloon. Combine these factors with the unmistakable aroma of vaporized ass growths and you are now primed to cut the fart of a lifetime. As soon as you wake up and turn over EVERYONE in the office will know what kind of a procedure you just had. And everyone in the parking lot. And passengers on commercial flights. And scientists aboard the international space station. It is both awe-inspiring and humbling.
The human body is a miraculous thing, kids.
Quaint Vignettes From My Charming Rural Idyll
I remember my ex-husband the way he looked when last I saw him 23 or so years ago: a sweet little catamite angel, pretty as an elf. Naturally platinum blond, with sculpted lips, bone structure forever, chocolate brown eyes, slim, athletic and stylish (and trying to choke me out and kick my legs out from underneath me while I held our infant daughter in my arms. Ahem.)
Time, as they say, wounds all heels. I finally saw a picture of him taken about a year or so ago.
The guy looks exactly like a really mean hard boiled egg.
I could not POSSIBLY be more delighted!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
_______________________________________________________
The swine and their so-called flu which has the brain of a duck you know have been defeated and I once again reign supreme, striding unseen and foul through the waste places of the earth. I thought it was gonna kill me. I can see why this shit is taking lives-even with good nutrition and timely medical care I was left feeling like I'd had a giant horrible leech sucking my will to live. The only other time I was left feeling this completely beat up and exhausted was after I'd given birth. It scared me badly.
From what I read swine flu heads straight for the lungs and creates all kinds of havoc there. I am here to testify to that fact, chillun. I went straight from it to bronchitis and pneumonia without stopping at GO. I could not walk across the room. I felt like-no exaggeration-I was being shot in multiple places all over my torso and upper legs with an industrial pin nailer every time I coughed (yeah I know I already said this in my last post but it bears repeating. It HURT.). All I can say is thank God I finished my Christmas shopping early because one trip to the seething dish of agar and pestilence called the ladies room at WalMart would have flat killed me. Just touching the latch on the stall door. BOOM. Dead. On the floor.
My advice to you is: don't get swine flu. And if someone offers you some swine flu, like say at a party or on the elevator or something, just say no.
____________________________________________________
This past summer the Yummy Biker decided to take a mental health holiday from work. The Playboy of the Western World was kind enough to leave us more than enough wherewithal (which is French for 'massive cash') to take a few months off and enjoy life. We did a little recreational spending, travelled around, took a few road trips on the Victory, and hung out with degenerates. It was awesome!
Whats not so awesome, at least as far as my ego is concerned, is that suddenly the Biker has blossomed into a world class chef.
Here's the deal: I am the queen of cuisine around here. ME.
When I first met this man he was doing lame bachelor white trash things like eating dehydrated mashed potatoes and putting brown sugar into marinara. Meanwhile its been me who cranked out the serious chow and garnered all the applause and had to pretend to be all humble and shit. Sure, I'd let him mess around and make a few side dishes and stuff or do simple shit like roasts. I even let him keep his gimpy kitchen tools in my kitchen; it made him happy. And its not like he didn't have native talent; once I'd introduced him to the concept of respect for ingredients (and hidden the brown sugar) he demonstrated an amazing gift for flavor combinations and textures, better by far than mine. Still, could he make bread? Deep fry? Knock out a hollandaise, or put together a pate brisee or make a comfit or do any of that fancy technique stuff? No way.
Not then.
Here I thought he was laying on the couch all mokin da doink and reading American Iron. I was wrong. What he was actually doing was laying on the couch mokin da doink and watching Food Network and taking notes.
No kidding. I've found notes.
I'd be outside working in the garden, feeding stray cats into the chipper and meanwhile his ass was in the kitchen making fucking tapanade. I come in and he's all like "Oh here," and hands me some dish of amazing miraculous amazingness. "I made dinner."
I put on ten pounds in three months.
Time, as they say, wounds all heels. I finally saw a picture of him taken about a year or so ago.
The guy looks exactly like a really mean hard boiled egg.
I could not POSSIBLY be more delighted!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
_______________________________________________________
The swine and their so-called flu which has the brain of a duck you know have been defeated and I once again reign supreme, striding unseen and foul through the waste places of the earth. I thought it was gonna kill me. I can see why this shit is taking lives-even with good nutrition and timely medical care I was left feeling like I'd had a giant horrible leech sucking my will to live. The only other time I was left feeling this completely beat up and exhausted was after I'd given birth. It scared me badly.
From what I read swine flu heads straight for the lungs and creates all kinds of havoc there. I am here to testify to that fact, chillun. I went straight from it to bronchitis and pneumonia without stopping at GO. I could not walk across the room. I felt like-no exaggeration-I was being shot in multiple places all over my torso and upper legs with an industrial pin nailer every time I coughed (yeah I know I already said this in my last post but it bears repeating. It HURT.). All I can say is thank God I finished my Christmas shopping early because one trip to the seething dish of agar and pestilence called the ladies room at WalMart would have flat killed me. Just touching the latch on the stall door. BOOM. Dead. On the floor.
My advice to you is: don't get swine flu. And if someone offers you some swine flu, like say at a party or on the elevator or something, just say no.
____________________________________________________
This past summer the Yummy Biker decided to take a mental health holiday from work. The Playboy of the Western World was kind enough to leave us more than enough wherewithal (which is French for 'massive cash') to take a few months off and enjoy life. We did a little recreational spending, travelled around, took a few road trips on the Victory, and hung out with degenerates. It was awesome!
Whats not so awesome, at least as far as my ego is concerned, is that suddenly the Biker has blossomed into a world class chef.
Here's the deal: I am the queen of cuisine around here. ME.
When I first met this man he was doing lame bachelor white trash things like eating dehydrated mashed potatoes and putting brown sugar into marinara. Meanwhile its been me who cranked out the serious chow and garnered all the applause and had to pretend to be all humble and shit. Sure, I'd let him mess around and make a few side dishes and stuff or do simple shit like roasts. I even let him keep his gimpy kitchen tools in my kitchen; it made him happy. And its not like he didn't have native talent; once I'd introduced him to the concept of respect for ingredients (and hidden the brown sugar) he demonstrated an amazing gift for flavor combinations and textures, better by far than mine. Still, could he make bread? Deep fry? Knock out a hollandaise, or put together a pate brisee or make a comfit or do any of that fancy technique stuff? No way.
Not then.
Here I thought he was laying on the couch all mokin da doink and reading American Iron. I was wrong. What he was actually doing was laying on the couch mokin da doink and watching Food Network and taking notes.
No kidding. I've found notes.
I'd be outside working in the garden, feeding stray cats into the chipper and meanwhile his ass was in the kitchen making fucking tapanade. I come in and he's all like "Oh here," and hands me some dish of amazing miraculous amazingness. "I made dinner."
I put on ten pounds in three months.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I has it
No I did not get a flu shot. Yes I know I'm in the high-risk demographic because I'm an asthmatic. Paradoxically, that is exactly the reason that I can't get a flu shot. Why? BECAUSE IT ALWAYS GIVES ME THE FUCKING FLU.
This is by far the most PAINFUL flu, in terms of general body aches, I've ever had. It started out, weirdly enough, as a horrific painful burning backache and then suddenly jumped up into my lungs. Whenever I cough it feels like I'm being shot with a pin nailer in multiple places on my chest, back, face and legs, and let me hasten to assure you that is NO EXAGGERATION. I've been coughing so hard that I've thrown up. My lungs have filled with a substance that closely resembles semi-hardened carpenters glue, and there's been times that I thought my air passages were going to stick together and stay that way. Bad news, kids.
The good news is, if you can get ahold of some amoxycillin and a bottle of Cheretussin (codeine and guaifenesin syrup), your shit is set. Run a line of the antibiotic, knock back a half a shot of the syrup and stay hydrated. Stay warm. Watch some Food Network. It'll fix you right up.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll
THE CANADIAN APOCALYPSE CAPTURED IN DIGITAL IMAGES THAT YOU HAVE TO CLICK ON TO SEE PROPERLY
...holy SHITBALLS
This was taken as I stood directly before a manifestation of God's anger; an ANGRY SABLE CLOUDAL PROW OF ELECTRICAL DESTRUCTION WITH ALL THUNDER AND LIGHTENING GOING SMACK! BAM! FIRE! AND ALL HUGE SMOKING CRATERS OF VITRIFIED FORMER GRADE SCHOOL AND PARTS OF BURNED UP KIDS FLYING ALL OVER AND LEXUS DEALERSHIPS WITH DEATH, AND FLAMES. This is looking WWN toward where MJ used to live before God destroyed it. I mean, just look at this! God is just stomping the crap out of Canada.
...just freaking pitiful
Note how you can clearly see the slashing streaks of Gods' precipitational judgement hammering down upon the teeming, apostate humanity which climb around all over British Columbia, commiting sins, failing to wipe properly and generally messing it up. Meanwhile....
As you can see, God is sparing America. This is because our stuff is the coolest plus we have FREEDOM.
How much clearer does it have to be? God's even following the federally designated boundary between the USA (yay) and the godless cheeser hordes (boo)!
See? Right on the other side of that line of trees is the Canadian Border. And Canada is GONE. It is NO MORE. It's been WIPED OFF THE MAP, BABY. This is what happens when you piss off God. God will flat TAKE YOU OUT.
Here you can see the pulverized pieces of former Canada that have fallen all over my lawn, which I just overseeded a couple of months ago. This happened in three minutes. It's still happening in the picture, which is why its kind of blurry. See, though, this is pretty typical; Canada pisses off God and then I get stuck with a bunch of burnt-up Celine Dion chunks trashing up my yard.
Here we are looking SWW: Lynden is looking good.
...which it continued to do for another two minutes, when this happened:
OK now wait.
OK now wait. Where is Lynden?
OH CRAP LYNDEN IS GONE.
...well wait though. OK, I can live with that. Seriously, Lynden is kind of annoying. I'll just shop in Bellingham and
...now wait. What the fuck.
CANADA HAS REAPPEARED.
...well SHIT.
*scraps plans to rule a post-apocalyptic Canadian wasteland dressed in motocross gear and a loincloth riding around in a dunebuggy firing a machine gun and oppressing people*
_____________________________________________________________
Heres another couple of pictures I took just this morning:
Just another sunny gorgeous morning here in Sumas. Meanwhile, up on Dead Drug Dealer Mountain, a blanket of cloud hides the summit from view...
...then moves away, leaving behind a blanket of light snow five minutes later. This is how quickly things happen and how localized the weather phenomena are here. Lets all give my million dollar view a big hand, shall we? Isn't it excellent?
...holy SHITBALLS
This was taken as I stood directly before a manifestation of God's anger; an ANGRY SABLE CLOUDAL PROW OF ELECTRICAL DESTRUCTION WITH ALL THUNDER AND LIGHTENING GOING SMACK! BAM! FIRE! AND ALL HUGE SMOKING CRATERS OF VITRIFIED FORMER GRADE SCHOOL AND PARTS OF BURNED UP KIDS FLYING ALL OVER AND LEXUS DEALERSHIPS WITH DEATH, AND FLAMES. This is looking WWN toward where MJ used to live before God destroyed it. I mean, just look at this! God is just stomping the crap out of Canada.
...just freaking pitiful
Note how you can clearly see the slashing streaks of Gods' precipitational judgement hammering down upon the teeming, apostate humanity which climb around all over British Columbia, commiting sins, failing to wipe properly and generally messing it up. Meanwhile....
As you can see, God is sparing America. This is because our stuff is the coolest plus we have FREEDOM.
How much clearer does it have to be? God's even following the federally designated boundary between the USA (yay) and the godless cheeser hordes (boo)!
See? Right on the other side of that line of trees is the Canadian Border. And Canada is GONE. It is NO MORE. It's been WIPED OFF THE MAP, BABY. This is what happens when you piss off God. God will flat TAKE YOU OUT.
Here you can see the pulverized pieces of former Canada that have fallen all over my lawn, which I just overseeded a couple of months ago. This happened in three minutes. It's still happening in the picture, which is why its kind of blurry. See, though, this is pretty typical; Canada pisses off God and then I get stuck with a bunch of burnt-up Celine Dion chunks trashing up my yard.
Here we are looking SWW: Lynden is looking good.
...which it continued to do for another two minutes, when this happened:
OK now wait.
OK now wait. Where is Lynden?
OH CRAP LYNDEN IS GONE.
...well wait though. OK, I can live with that. Seriously, Lynden is kind of annoying. I'll just shop in Bellingham and
...now wait. What the fuck.
CANADA HAS REAPPEARED.
...well SHIT.
*scraps plans to rule a post-apocalyptic Canadian wasteland dressed in motocross gear and a loincloth riding around in a dunebuggy firing a machine gun and oppressing people*
_____________________________________________________________
Heres another couple of pictures I took just this morning:
Just another sunny gorgeous morning here in Sumas. Meanwhile, up on Dead Drug Dealer Mountain, a blanket of cloud hides the summit from view...
...then moves away, leaving behind a blanket of light snow five minutes later. This is how quickly things happen and how localized the weather phenomena are here. Lets all give my million dollar view a big hand, shall we? Isn't it excellent?
Friday, November 13, 2009
BICYCLISTS SUCK BALLS
Once I have this hammered out the way I like it I'm going to send it to all the bicycling sites I can find on the web and get heard, since Paul doesn't exactly stand at the center of the average bicyclists’ media universe. It's come to that.
_________________________________
Yeah, I've been here before. There, in fact vvv
http://1hplovecraft.blogspot.com/2008/03/die-two-wheeled-slime.html
I'm gonna go there again.
This past summer was a beautiful one here in the PNW. Absolutely gorgeous. Unbelievably gorgeous. We spent a lot of time out on the road. Travelling was a joy.
EXCEPT FOR THE GOD-DAMNED BICYCLISTS.
Are you a bicyclist? Then you do this or you have done this. Yes, you have. None of you are the magic exception to the following. You all need a goddamn wake-up call because you simply do not comprehend the concrete reality of the following FACTS:
1. On any road, but particularly on the freeway, in a showdown between your 7 lbs of recycled beer cans and my Buick, you are going to lose. Maybe I was driving poorly. Maybe an unforeseen obstacle up ahead caused a sudden, unavoidable hazard. Maybe a strong side wind blew you in front of me. THAT DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU ARE GOING TO LOSE.
Are you in deer country? How about dog, cat, possum, raccoon, skunk and/or squirrel country? Is there blowing trash or dust? Silage? Something being harvested nearby? Is there bad weather? No shoulder? Are there signs that say 'Strong Side Winds Next 5 Miles'? Are there drunk drivers on the road? How about semis? Loaded log trucks? Nigerian cabbies? Finally, are you riding one of those stupid recumbent things?
If the answer to any of these questions is 'yes' then YOUR PLACE IS ON THE SIDE OF THE FUCKING ROAD. STAY OUT OF THE TRAFFIC LANES.
2. In a showdown between your 7 lbs of recycled beer cans and my motorcycle, YOU ARE GOING TO LOSE. Yeah, that never occurred to you did it. It doesn't seem to occur to most of you.
2a. Don't think that simply because we are both on two wheels that you can split a lane with me. You can't and you shouldn't. And there is more at work here than greater mass and power vs. an exhausted vegetarian on a kids' toy. For example, if you come up from the right along beside me, YOU WILL GET BURNT-BADLY- by my exhaust. Chances are I will have sped up to get well ahead of your sweaty ass which is something I do for safety's sake( only one vehicle per lane here, Paco...that’s the law.) Therefore chances are good that I'll never know it happened. Again- this is not because I'm an asshole and don't care, although I am and I don't. It's because I am operating a motorized vehicle in a safe and orderly manner on a system of roads designed for motorized vehicles, and I am already a mile away.
3. You all seem to think that simply because you find yourselves in a rural setting, or at least between major towns and not riding on a multi-lane highway, you can ride all over the goddamn road any which way you want, singly or in large groups, not paying any attention whatsoever, because you are in 18th century fucking France.
This is not France.
This is not the 18th century.
Rural American roadways carry more large motorized commercial vehicles and agricultural implements more of the time than do the major highways. Why? Because actual WORK is being done here, and summertime is the time when most of that work is being done. Summertime does not mean that Pierre hitches up the oxcart and merry peasants go dancing down the road with baskets of cabbage balanced on their heads. It means that local business people fire up the semi, the tractor, the raspberry processor, the silage harvester, the combine, the manure tanks and the hay baler and drive them from one field to the next. They are working against the clock just like any other businessperson. Furthermore, there are special laws that allow agricultural vehicles to use lower-grade, smoky fuels, travel at speeds other than posted, and for underage operators to drive them.
THEY HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.
Remember too: they are also subject to the same laws of physics as cars, motorcycles and you-
Tiny frail objects traveling slowly get turned into nasty bloody confetti when their paths cross those of large heavy objects traveling rapidly.
4. If you are operating a bicycle in an urbanized area, particularly where there is on-street parking, stay out of the traffic lane. PERIOD. I don't care what the law says you can and cannot do. In this case any law allowing you into the flow of motorized traffic is a bad one and should be changed for your safety and mine. You simply cannot accelerate as quickly, maintain posted speeds or stop as quickly as a car can. That this statement pisses you off or that you disagree does not in any way take away from its truth. Get over yourself.
4a. DON'T BRING YOUR LITTLE KIDS ON THEIR LITTLE WOBBLY BIKES OUT INTO TRAFFIC WITH YOU. Every single one of you who thinks that they're 'training' their children to ride in town by doing this should be cited for gross child endangerment. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen the following scenarios:
SCENARIO A: Mommy hippie, daddy hippie and three little child hippies are waiting at the corner for the light to change. Once it does, mommy and daddy hippie pedal right off, followed by oldest child. Second child, not wanting to get tangled, waits for the pack to get going before taking off, and struggles to come up to speed, and by now the light is halfway over. Smallest child has been looking at a fire truck and only realizes at the last minute that its time to ride, and drops the bike, then gets back up on the bike and begins to trying to pedal, struggling to get up to speed.
And the light changes.
And smallest child is in the middle of the intersection.
Try and make it through any neighborhood in urban Portland or Seattle and count how many times this happens. Honest to snot. These are probably the same parents that wouldn't dream of giving their children processed sugar or letting them walk alone to school, and yet it seems perfectly OK to let them chance getting squashed by a goddamn ambulance.
SCENARIO B. A giant pack of bicyclists (including a lot of little kids on little bicycles) waits at an intersection for the light to change. The light changes and the ones who aren't deep in conversation or using their cell phones or getting a blowjob take off slowly, trying not to get tangled. Kids drop their bikes, freeze like deer in the headlights, or take off in random directions at random speeds. The rest of the pack straggles off slowly, some riders jumping off halfway to push their bikes, some running into the others, some swerving out into oncoming traffic as they try and go around the cluster-fuck. The whole mess continues to meander across even after the light has changed. Now traffic is backed up. Cars are gunning their engines and honking. Meanwhile more bicyclists hurry to tag themselves on to the last stragglers in the pack, which is now mainly comprised of little kids and assholes. At least one of them (generally an 'adult') flips me off.*
SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT PEOPLE.
Roads are designed for motorized vehicles.
You, on a bicycle, are not a motorized vehicle.
The moment you go out onto the street you are at a disadvantage and that’s simply a fact. If there are designated bicycle lanes in your town, USE THEM EXCLUSIVELY. Particularly if you are riding with children.
If there are no bicycle lanes, pull you head out of your ass and operate your goddamn bicycle DEFENSIVELY.
___________________________________
*OO. Scary bicyclist. One day, scary bicyclist, you won't be flipping off the lady laughing at your sad antics from inside the Buick. You'll be flipping off an undercover cop, or a delivery truck driver in a hurry, or my buddy Chris, who'll flat stop his car, jump out and beat you into a screaming, crying pulp with a jack handle. He is OUT there. And he doesn't care. You already made him late.
_________________________________
Yeah, I've been here before. There, in fact vvv
http://1hplovecraft.blogspot.com/2008/03/die-two-wheeled-slime.html
I'm gonna go there again.
This past summer was a beautiful one here in the PNW. Absolutely gorgeous. Unbelievably gorgeous. We spent a lot of time out on the road. Travelling was a joy.
EXCEPT FOR THE GOD-DAMNED BICYCLISTS.
Are you a bicyclist? Then you do this or you have done this. Yes, you have. None of you are the magic exception to the following. You all need a goddamn wake-up call because you simply do not comprehend the concrete reality of the following FACTS:
1. On any road, but particularly on the freeway, in a showdown between your 7 lbs of recycled beer cans and my Buick, you are going to lose. Maybe I was driving poorly. Maybe an unforeseen obstacle up ahead caused a sudden, unavoidable hazard. Maybe a strong side wind blew you in front of me. THAT DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU ARE GOING TO LOSE.
Are you in deer country? How about dog, cat, possum, raccoon, skunk and/or squirrel country? Is there blowing trash or dust? Silage? Something being harvested nearby? Is there bad weather? No shoulder? Are there signs that say 'Strong Side Winds Next 5 Miles'? Are there drunk drivers on the road? How about semis? Loaded log trucks? Nigerian cabbies? Finally, are you riding one of those stupid recumbent things?
If the answer to any of these questions is 'yes' then YOUR PLACE IS ON THE SIDE OF THE FUCKING ROAD. STAY OUT OF THE TRAFFIC LANES.
2. In a showdown between your 7 lbs of recycled beer cans and my motorcycle, YOU ARE GOING TO LOSE. Yeah, that never occurred to you did it. It doesn't seem to occur to most of you.
2a. Don't think that simply because we are both on two wheels that you can split a lane with me. You can't and you shouldn't. And there is more at work here than greater mass and power vs. an exhausted vegetarian on a kids' toy. For example, if you come up from the right along beside me, YOU WILL GET BURNT-BADLY- by my exhaust. Chances are I will have sped up to get well ahead of your sweaty ass which is something I do for safety's sake( only one vehicle per lane here, Paco...that’s the law.) Therefore chances are good that I'll never know it happened. Again- this is not because I'm an asshole and don't care, although I am and I don't. It's because I am operating a motorized vehicle in a safe and orderly manner on a system of roads designed for motorized vehicles, and I am already a mile away.
3. You all seem to think that simply because you find yourselves in a rural setting, or at least between major towns and not riding on a multi-lane highway, you can ride all over the goddamn road any which way you want, singly or in large groups, not paying any attention whatsoever, because you are in 18th century fucking France.
This is not France.
This is not the 18th century.
Rural American roadways carry more large motorized commercial vehicles and agricultural implements more of the time than do the major highways. Why? Because actual WORK is being done here, and summertime is the time when most of that work is being done. Summertime does not mean that Pierre hitches up the oxcart and merry peasants go dancing down the road with baskets of cabbage balanced on their heads. It means that local business people fire up the semi, the tractor, the raspberry processor, the silage harvester, the combine, the manure tanks and the hay baler and drive them from one field to the next. They are working against the clock just like any other businessperson. Furthermore, there are special laws that allow agricultural vehicles to use lower-grade, smoky fuels, travel at speeds other than posted, and for underage operators to drive them.
THEY HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.
Remember too: they are also subject to the same laws of physics as cars, motorcycles and you-
Tiny frail objects traveling slowly get turned into nasty bloody confetti when their paths cross those of large heavy objects traveling rapidly.
4. If you are operating a bicycle in an urbanized area, particularly where there is on-street parking, stay out of the traffic lane. PERIOD. I don't care what the law says you can and cannot do. In this case any law allowing you into the flow of motorized traffic is a bad one and should be changed for your safety and mine. You simply cannot accelerate as quickly, maintain posted speeds or stop as quickly as a car can. That this statement pisses you off or that you disagree does not in any way take away from its truth. Get over yourself.
4a. DON'T BRING YOUR LITTLE KIDS ON THEIR LITTLE WOBBLY BIKES OUT INTO TRAFFIC WITH YOU. Every single one of you who thinks that they're 'training' their children to ride in town by doing this should be cited for gross child endangerment. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen the following scenarios:
SCENARIO A: Mommy hippie, daddy hippie and three little child hippies are waiting at the corner for the light to change. Once it does, mommy and daddy hippie pedal right off, followed by oldest child. Second child, not wanting to get tangled, waits for the pack to get going before taking off, and struggles to come up to speed, and by now the light is halfway over. Smallest child has been looking at a fire truck and only realizes at the last minute that its time to ride, and drops the bike, then gets back up on the bike and begins to trying to pedal, struggling to get up to speed.
And the light changes.
And smallest child is in the middle of the intersection.
Try and make it through any neighborhood in urban Portland or Seattle and count how many times this happens. Honest to snot. These are probably the same parents that wouldn't dream of giving their children processed sugar or letting them walk alone to school, and yet it seems perfectly OK to let them chance getting squashed by a goddamn ambulance.
SCENARIO B. A giant pack of bicyclists (including a lot of little kids on little bicycles) waits at an intersection for the light to change. The light changes and the ones who aren't deep in conversation or using their cell phones or getting a blowjob take off slowly, trying not to get tangled. Kids drop their bikes, freeze like deer in the headlights, or take off in random directions at random speeds. The rest of the pack straggles off slowly, some riders jumping off halfway to push their bikes, some running into the others, some swerving out into oncoming traffic as they try and go around the cluster-fuck. The whole mess continues to meander across even after the light has changed. Now traffic is backed up. Cars are gunning their engines and honking. Meanwhile more bicyclists hurry to tag themselves on to the last stragglers in the pack, which is now mainly comprised of little kids and assholes. At least one of them (generally an 'adult') flips me off.*
SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT PEOPLE.
Roads are designed for motorized vehicles.
You, on a bicycle, are not a motorized vehicle.
The moment you go out onto the street you are at a disadvantage and that’s simply a fact. If there are designated bicycle lanes in your town, USE THEM EXCLUSIVELY. Particularly if you are riding with children.
If there are no bicycle lanes, pull you head out of your ass and operate your goddamn bicycle DEFENSIVELY.
___________________________________
*OO. Scary bicyclist. One day, scary bicyclist, you won't be flipping off the lady laughing at your sad antics from inside the Buick. You'll be flipping off an undercover cop, or a delivery truck driver in a hurry, or my buddy Chris, who'll flat stop his car, jump out and beat you into a screaming, crying pulp with a jack handle. He is OUT there. And he doesn't care. You already made him late.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Green Ox Reads Seven Government Form: Gluey!!
What have I been doing during my long absence from the innerwubs? Thinking only of you, my darlings. Only of you.
With you in mind, then, I undertook to perfect a special recipe. This is particularly for those of you with an open mind, an adventurous palate and a thrill-seeking liver. So without further ado (or extensive disclaimer - if you misuse this it's going to take some deliberate doing on your part and I'm not your mother)I present to you the fruit of ten years' experimentation:
Shasta Daisies a la Mexico
...a delightful beverage you can serve at your next Young Republicans soiree
fig a: "shasta daisy" (wink wink) showing all plant parts.
Note: Effects and measurements of the "Shasta Daisy" are based on results using a middle aged woman weighing 210 pounds with an empty stomach first thing in the morning. Your results may vary. In fact, if you are allergic to opiates, your results may vary as far as death, which is fatal. Don't be a dipshit.
___________________________________________________________
INGREDIENTS:
-Entire "Shasta Daisy" plants, leaves and all, harvested after the first few seedpods have formed... any undeveloped flower buds removed and discarded, any flower petals removed and discarded, root ends and woody trunk cut off and discarded, the remaining plant parts washed and chopped into manageable pieces. DON'T forget the washing. Particularly if you have dogs. Yeah.
fig. b: "Shasta Daisy" comes in many different colors and petal configurations, which matters not one whit to the relative potency of its psychoactive compounds.
-Lukewarm water as needed
-One whole cake of 'Abuelita' style Mexican chocolate
-One pint heavy cream
-1/4 cup Hershey's Special Dark unsweetened cocoa powder
-Plain white sugar or honey (or fructose) to taste
The following ingredients are optional and to taste and can be omitted if so desired. I don't. These are what makes it extra delicious.
-MORE Hershey's Special Dark unsweetened cocoa powder
-One can of coconut milk (or one handful of shredded sweetened coconut)
-Ground nutmeg
-Ground cinnamon
-Ground black pepper
-More sugar or honey (or fructose.)
______________________________________
INSTRUCTIONS:
Run the chopped "Shasta Daisies" through a blender, using just enough lukewarm water to make things able to move through the blades, adding bit by bit until you have 2 cups of green chopped up goop. Pour into a saucepan and set aside.
Now pour the heavy cream and/or the coconut milk into the blender. Break up the cake of Abuelita Mexican chocolate and add to carafe, blend until smooth. Or as smooth as it gets, which is a little sandy.
Add the rest of the ingredients into the carafe and blend them together now, if you're the bold type and know your spices. Or, you can wait and whisk them in later and taste often. It's up to you. I honestly don't care. Just do whatever the fuck you want. Just go right ahead.
Transfer the contents of the blender to the saucepan. Now add extra lukewarm water, cream or milk to this if you have to, enough to bring the slurry up to a 'Campbells chicken noodle soup' consistency. It all depends on how 'juicy' the "Shasta Daisies" were, so do whatever you gotta do here.
Stirring often, bring the contents of the saucepan up to a bare simmer, just before it begins to bubble actively. If you were all spineless about adding the extra ingredients earlier, now is the time to whisk them in, tasting often, but sparingly. After all, we're talking about "Shasta Daisies" here. At this point it's going to have a distinctly rank, uncooked green vegetable flavor. This is probably because at this point it's raw uncooked vegetable matter. You see.
Once it reaches the 'almost bubbling' point, lower the heat and let it steep on 'low' for at least 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. This develops the spices, extracts the active ingredients from the "Shasta Daisy" and also kills the 'lawn clippings and raw beans' taste.
Let cool (overnight in the fridge is optimum), then strain. I use a ricer over a fine mesh strainer set over a bowl, working in batches, so I can squeeze out every last drop of that "Shasta Daisy" goodness.
fig. 3: "Shasta Daisy". If anyone at this point actually, actually comments 'Hey, that's not a Shasta Daisy!', please go read Wife in the North.
This is delicious. DELICIOUS . The "Shasta Daisy" adds a pleasant astringency that keeps the whole from being too cloying, actually acting as both a culinary and a psychoactive ingredient. One 16 fluid ounce glass is roughly equivalent to the intoxicating effect of one hefty oxycontin, so if you're a cheap date don't be operating any giant wheat combines or the Space Shuttle or attempting microsurgery or taking care of an infant or trying to conduct serious business. Or actually yes, try and conduct serious business. And make a video of that, and send it to me. In about 30 minutes, assuming an empty stomach and a normal constitution, you should begin to feel the effects, which can last anywhere from 6 to 10 hours.
You Randolph Carter types will already know what to expect from the "Shasta Daisy" and its unique melange of active ingredients, and so you'll be glad to hear that you can use any of the usual enhancing agents to kick it with for that extra something special. I'd advise you to let it happen unassisted for the first trial, though. If I add anything, I add a shot of Bushmills and call it good.
Now, you see? Wasn't that worth waiting for? Yes it was. Now here's a picture of some boobs.
With you in mind, then, I undertook to perfect a special recipe. This is particularly for those of you with an open mind, an adventurous palate and a thrill-seeking liver. So without further ado (or extensive disclaimer - if you misuse this it's going to take some deliberate doing on your part and I'm not your mother)I present to you the fruit of ten years' experimentation:
Shasta Daisies a la Mexico
...a delightful beverage you can serve at your next Young Republicans soiree
fig a: "shasta daisy" (wink wink) showing all plant parts.Note: Effects and measurements of the "Shasta Daisy" are based on results using a middle aged woman weighing 210 pounds with an empty stomach first thing in the morning. Your results may vary. In fact, if you are allergic to opiates, your results may vary as far as death, which is fatal. Don't be a dipshit.
___________________________________________________________
INGREDIENTS:
-Entire "Shasta Daisy" plants, leaves and all, harvested after the first few seedpods have formed... any undeveloped flower buds removed and discarded, any flower petals removed and discarded, root ends and woody trunk cut off and discarded, the remaining plant parts washed and chopped into manageable pieces. DON'T forget the washing. Particularly if you have dogs. Yeah.
fig. b: "Shasta Daisy" comes in many different colors and petal configurations, which matters not one whit to the relative potency of its psychoactive compounds.-Lukewarm water as needed
-One whole cake of 'Abuelita' style Mexican chocolate
-One pint heavy cream
-1/4 cup Hershey's Special Dark unsweetened cocoa powder
-Plain white sugar or honey (or fructose) to taste
The following ingredients are optional and to taste and can be omitted if so desired. I don't. These are what makes it extra delicious.
-MORE Hershey's Special Dark unsweetened cocoa powder
-One can of coconut milk (or one handful of shredded sweetened coconut)
-Ground nutmeg
-Ground cinnamon
-Ground black pepper
-More sugar or honey (or fructose.)
______________________________________
INSTRUCTIONS:
Run the chopped "Shasta Daisies" through a blender, using just enough lukewarm water to make things able to move through the blades, adding bit by bit until you have 2 cups of green chopped up goop. Pour into a saucepan and set aside.
Now pour the heavy cream and/or the coconut milk into the blender. Break up the cake of Abuelita Mexican chocolate and add to carafe, blend until smooth. Or as smooth as it gets, which is a little sandy.
Add the rest of the ingredients into the carafe and blend them together now, if you're the bold type and know your spices. Or, you can wait and whisk them in later and taste often. It's up to you. I honestly don't care. Just do whatever the fuck you want. Just go right ahead.
Transfer the contents of the blender to the saucepan. Now add extra lukewarm water, cream or milk to this if you have to, enough to bring the slurry up to a 'Campbells chicken noodle soup' consistency. It all depends on how 'juicy' the "Shasta Daisies" were, so do whatever you gotta do here.
Stirring often, bring the contents of the saucepan up to a bare simmer, just before it begins to bubble actively. If you were all spineless about adding the extra ingredients earlier, now is the time to whisk them in, tasting often, but sparingly. After all, we're talking about "Shasta Daisies" here. At this point it's going to have a distinctly rank, uncooked green vegetable flavor. This is probably because at this point it's raw uncooked vegetable matter. You see.
Once it reaches the 'almost bubbling' point, lower the heat and let it steep on 'low' for at least 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. This develops the spices, extracts the active ingredients from the "Shasta Daisy" and also kills the 'lawn clippings and raw beans' taste.
Let cool (overnight in the fridge is optimum), then strain. I use a ricer over a fine mesh strainer set over a bowl, working in batches, so I can squeeze out every last drop of that "Shasta Daisy" goodness.
fig. 3: "Shasta Daisy". If anyone at this point actually, actually comments 'Hey, that's not a Shasta Daisy!', please go read Wife in the North. This is delicious. DELICIOUS . The "Shasta Daisy" adds a pleasant astringency that keeps the whole from being too cloying, actually acting as both a culinary and a psychoactive ingredient. One 16 fluid ounce glass is roughly equivalent to the intoxicating effect of one hefty oxycontin, so if you're a cheap date don't be operating any giant wheat combines or the Space Shuttle or attempting microsurgery or taking care of an infant or trying to conduct serious business. Or actually yes, try and conduct serious business. And make a video of that, and send it to me. In about 30 minutes, assuming an empty stomach and a normal constitution, you should begin to feel the effects, which can last anywhere from 6 to 10 hours.
You Randolph Carter types will already know what to expect from the "Shasta Daisy" and its unique melange of active ingredients, and so you'll be glad to hear that you can use any of the usual enhancing agents to kick it with for that extra something special. I'd advise you to let it happen unassisted for the first trial, though. If I add anything, I add a shot of Bushmills and call it good.
Now, you see? Wasn't that worth waiting for? Yes it was. Now here's a picture of some boobs.
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