Trump Consumes Bowl of Cookie Crisp - "I'm Very Proud"

Real-estate mogul / possible presidential candidate Donald Trump held a press-conference this morning to announce that he had a bowl of cereal for breakfast.

"Today is a great day," Trump said, while fighting a stiff northeasterly wind. "This morning, I consumed an entire bowl of Cookie Crisp, which is a terrific breakfast ceral. I am very proud of myself. Very proud."

Trump, star of the NBC "reality" series "The Apprentice" bragged further that he had even completed the puzzle on the back of the box.

"I have done something that no one else has accomplished. I completed the maze on the box in record time. There is no one else who would have been nearly as successful as I was. Let me tell you something, I broke the Cookie Crisp Theif out of the jail and led him directly to the bowl of cereal - no wrong turns at all. I was very, very impressive."

One reporter expressed doubt, and asked to see proof of the maze. Trump replied that it would be released soon.

"Look," Trump said. "We're going to release it. I can't do it right now, but it will be soon. And when we do, I think you will be very impressed. Again, I'm very proud of myself, and it really is a great day for the country."
When reporters asked why he chose the sugary Cookie Crisp instead of a healthier alternative, Trump scoffed. "Clearly, you don't know the facts. Cookie Crisp is loaded with 10 essiential vitamins and minerals. It's a terrific product. It's been a leader on the forefront of cereal for years. You wouldn't understand this. You eat Froot Loops, don't you? You can tell.  As a winner, I only eat winner cereals. Cookie Crisp is a winner. It really is terrific."

Trump then went on to fire a shot across the bow of a rival cereal.

"I want you to know, I've sent some of my people over to investigate Cocoa Pebbles, and the things I'm hearing are really going to blow your minds. I can't tell you who these people are, but I'm telling you, when I release the info, it's really going to shake the foundation of society."

When pressed, Trump refused to elaborate.

As cameras flashed around him, another reporter asked Trump to address the rumor that he was going to be having KFC for dinner.

"Look," Trump said. "I can't talk about that yet. As you know, I have the number one show on NBC - it's called "Celebrity Apprentice" - a terrific show.  As long as "Celebrity Apprentice" is on the air, I can't talk about my decision. It will be coming soon, and I think everyone will be very surprised by what I say."

With that, Trump abruptly ended the conference and walked to his helicopter with a sugar-infused swagger to his step.

Special Child Discovered to be "Exceedingly Unspecial"

November 18, 2010


(AP) Evanston, IL - An Evanston family was devastated to learn yesterday that their "special" child was actually, in fact, completely unspecial.

"We were shocked," said Margaret Thompson, 45. "We could have sworn little Preston was completely special. In fact, we've been telling him ever since he was born that he was special. Now I get the news that we've been lying to him the entire time. It has been a very difficult few days".

Preston Thompson III, 10, had been operating his entire life under the assumption that he was indeed special. He was brought to the attention of doctors at Rush Memorial Hospital in Chicago, who rushed him in for a battery of tests. The result was, to say the least, shocking.

"On the outside, all the signs pointed to him being special," said Dr. Marvin Cho, director of the Special Childrens Unit at Rush. "But once we put him through our tests, we discovered that not only was he not special, he was exceedingly unspecial. In fact, of all the children I have examined over my 35 years in the medical industry, I have never seen a child more unspecial than Preston Thompson III".

The rate of discovery of unspecial children has risen significantly during this past decade. Experts say Special Child Extremeritis (SCE)  hit epidemic stages in the mid to late-90's when every child was treated as though they were special and completely unique.

"There was a real boom, with 1997 being the peak year, of children being told they were special," Dr. Cho explained. "It was during that time where we had a spike in children being given names like Tyler, Eryka, Dylan, and Madison. These kids were deliberatetly misled by their parents into thinking they were special. They were enrolled in ballet lessons and karate classes as young as 3 years old. This, of course, led to pee-wee soccer leagues, which is the real obvious symptom of SCE."

Discovering your child is not special is a tough bit of news for every parent. Preston Thompson II, 47, was so broken up by the report that he couldn't even speak to this reporter. However, Dr. Cho wants to make sure the public knows that having an unspecial child is certainly not the end of the world.

"Many non-special children, or unspecs as we call them, go on to lead completely normal, if not dull lives. You will find many unspecs thriving in middle-management positions, happy, content, and fully embracing their complete un-uniqueness".

For the Thompsons, each day is a struggle, but they know over time, acceptance will rule the day. "We know now that Preston is not special," Mrs. Thompson said. "Of course, it will take time, but we're getting there. I mean, when we first found out, my husband was so distraught he wanted to put Preston in a pillowcase, drive him out to the country and leave him on the side of the road. Luckily, I talked him out of it, and he is slowly coming around. He actually looked Preston in the eye the other day, and didn't break down crying. Small steps. Besides, we always have our daughter, MacKenzie".

However, difficult times still lay ahead for the Thompsons. In a follow-up report released this week, MacKenzie Thompson, 8, was described as "obscenely average and boring to be around".

McRib-Tickling

November 16, 2010

Oh, McRib. Welcome back.

 

I think I can say in all honesty, it's been at least 13 years since I've had one of these bad boys. Hey, McRib? Whaddya say we make it another 13 years, huh? I swear, I had one of these two days ago, and I still don't have any feeling in my feet.

For those of you who might be unfamiliar with just what a McRib is, here you go: It's some sort of patty-like substance pressed into a vaguely rib-cage-shape, slathered in overly-sweet BBQ sauce, topped with onions and pickles, and served on a chewy hoagie roll. Word to the wise: bread should never be chewy.

Another word to the wise: do NOT wipe the sauce off the McRib. You will be tempted - I urge you to fight that temptation. The result is like seeing a naked Shelly Winters - you may be intrigued, you may be curious, you may be fascinated, but you will never be able to get that image off your corneas.

The first thing you notice about the McRib is the scent. It smells of teenagers and desperation. Many of you will be asking, "What's the difference?". Well, it's subtle. Take salt, and add hormones, dissatisfaction and Axe Body Spray, and there you go. After the first bite, you do find yourself asking, "Is that gristle?". After the second bite, you find yourself asking, "Seriously, is that gristle?". If you manage to make it to a third bite, you find yourself saying, "Dear god, please let that be gristle". By the time you get to the fourth, you just feel like someone's been punching you repeatedly in the back. The McRib may be the only sandwich out there that makes you feel like a shut-in while eating it.  

If you do have the stamina to finish one, you may be surprised by some new found powers. I have no idea what they put in these things, but I discovered that not only could I see through walls, but also through time and space. Now, it's entirely possible I was just hallucinating, but I swear I had a conversation about The Partridge Family with a dinosaur-riding Napoleon Bonapart. We both agreed that even back in 1968, it was obvious that Danny was clearly a douchebag in the making.

One thing I do want to know, and I'm looking at you McDonalds Corporation: what the hell happened to your fries? When I was a kid, your fries were the be-all-end-all when it came to deep fried spuds. Now, maybe it's because I'm older, my tastes have matured, I no longer eat play-dough, who knows? But, man, your fries suck now. I always thought it was pretty hard to screw up something as easy as a french fry, but clearly I was wrong. Seriously, I've bitten into pencils that were tastier and more forgiving.

McRib. You, my friend, are a sauce-covered colon bomb. You finish one of these, and all you hear is the Mission: Impossible theme in your head. Whatever you do, make sure you are near a restroom. You know you only have a few minutes until detonation, so for the love of God, don't eat one of these while driving through the middle of Nebraska, unless you don't mind shitting in a ditch. When they say, "Availble for a limited time", they are not kidding.

Look, I'm no food-snob. There's a reason they keep bringing this thing back every couple of years. People obviously like them. Whatever floats your boat. If you like eating something that tastes like sadness, knock yourself out. I, however, think I'll take a pass. In only a few more weeks, the McRib will be put back in the vault until next time. But don't be depressed:

Only four months until Shamrock Shakes.

Grampa's Balls

October 21, 2010

I got thinking about balls today. Specifically, those belonging to Brett Favre.

 

Don't get me wrong - I don't usually spend a lot of time thinking about or picturing the scroticular region of men, not to mention future Hall of Fame quarterbacks. But this is different - I have no choice to think about them, because, simply put, people won't shut up about them.

In case you haven't heard, the Minnesota Vikings quarterback supposedly sent pictures of himself playing with his own personal Twin Cities to a woman associated with his former team, the New York Jets. Frankly, even more disturbing then the image of a fully engorged Favre is the fact that he was only wearing a pair of Crocs at the time. Seriously? Crocs? All of the money in the world eventually passes through your hands and you're wearing plastic shoes? The players union may want to get involved in this.

Here's where things get...um...sticky (Oh, shut up.). Supposedly the woman on the other end of this didn't want or even ask to see his Viking. Now, I've met plenty of beautiful women in my time, and while I may have wanted to send an unrequested 8x10 glossy of the Wonderstick, I do have that little voice inside my head that says, "Hey, Schmuck. Horrible idea. Why don't you go get a burrito instead?". I would, and everything turned out for the best. Brett, however, apparently doesn't have that voice, or maybe he simply doesn't like burritos. Either way, he decided to go all Ansel Adams, pushed send, and now that's all ESPN will talk about. 

Here's what I keep focusing on: 1) Favre is only a few months younger than me; and 2) Favre is a grampa. Brett and Deanna Favre's oldest daughter gave birth to a son earlier this year. A grampa.

Think about your grampa. Now, think about your grampa's balls.

Go ahead. I'll wait.

Look, I'll give you that Favre is in pretty incredible shape for a 41-year-old man. Of that, I'm sure there is no doubt. Still, no matter how great of shape you may be in, it's still a picture of a grampa's balls. I mean, pictures of balls in general are nothing to write home about. Let's face it, male genitalia is pretty goofy-looking as a rule. I've seen a lot of naked females in my time, and there are few things as beautiful as the naked female form. They're like fingerprints - all completely unique. Penises, on the other hand....well. Never have the following words left my lips: "Wow. That is one fine looking cock you got there, Chester". I mean, I hate to get all profile-y, but you see one, you've pretty much seen them all. I think it was Calvin Coolidge who said, "Feh, a penis is a penis is a penis".

My grampa was a great guy, and we did a lot of stuff together. We painted, went fishing, watched great movies (watching "Blazing Saddles" with him remains one of my all-time best memories), all sorts of grampa/grandson activities. However, not once did I see his balls. Never did he whip out the babymakers and say, "Take a look at these wrinkled sonsabitches. That's something else, huh?". I did see my granny's boobs once by mistake, and let me tell you, there is no amount of bleach available to get that image out of my mind.

Now, I'm not saying that you can't or shouldn't be a sexual being as you grow older. In fact, I'm hoping it's the exact opposite (If there is any positive to be taken from this whole thing is that us over-40 types still like naked fun time, even if no one else is there). Still, you can be sexual and not be a complete tool. For some reason, it still has not sunk into anyone's head: regardless if you are a teenager or someone a few months away from joining AARP, when you send naked pictures of yourself across the interwebs, they are going out EVERYWHERE. I'm not knocking the practice - if that's what gets you going, more power to you. But you can't then be surprised, shocked or embarassed when your crank gets the front page of the Star-Tribune.

Favre and the Vikings will be visiting his old stomping ground, Green Bay, this weekend. Hopefully, he'll spend more time Sunday throwing balls than photographing them.

KFC Hates You and Everything You Love

April 7, 2010

We've been friends for awhile now, right? I mean, I've been writing on OS for over a year, and I feel like we've become pretty close, no? We've shared some laughs, some tears, real confidant-type stuff. That's why I think it's time I share a little information with you. A secret kind of thing, if you will. Here it is:

KFC hates you and everything you love. 

I haven't eaten at a KFC in...well....years. In fact, there is a very distinct possibility I haven't eaten at a KFC since the word "Fried" was actually advertised in their title and the good Colonel was still amongst the breathing and non-moldy.  I have to tell you, though, their latest "invention" won't get me back in there anytime soon. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the DoubleDown:

 

Look closely. That's right, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. The "buns" are actually two pieces of fried chicken. The "meat" of the sandwich consists of bacon, cheese and some sort of magical space-age mayonaise.  Rumor has it, after eating this, you can actually see through time.

I've never had one of these, and can't imagine a situation where I would ever actually crave one, but I like the idea of this sandwich. This is a sandwich that has balls. A sandwich for people who don't have time for bread or uninterrupted blood flow.

It looks like a dare. Or, at the very least, the work of the laziest marketing guy ever:

"Johnson! You were supposed to come up with that new sandwich today. What do you have for me??!!!"

"Um....well....let's see....um. We take two pieces of chicken...and...uh...put some bacon between them? I figured we could market it to drunk college students and shut-ins."

"Brilliant! Now, is there anyway we can get it on a stick? Americans love food on sticks!"

It really is brilliant. Finally, a sandwich designed specifically for those morbidly obese people who have to have the wall of their bedroom removed so they can be transported to the hospital. It's been a long time coming. That sound you hear is Mississippi jumping for joy. Well, maybe not jumping so much as just kind of moving somewhat vertically.

This is what it's come to: meat surrounded by more meat. Look, I love meat. When Sam Elliot says it's what's for dinner, it's like he's talking directly to me. You're damned right, Sam Elliot. But this thing...my god. I think even Sam would say, "You know, maybe you should think about some greens, fatty". Just looking at this I get the shits.  I'm just now getting used to the whole turducken thing, now we have to deal with this? No wonder everyone hates us as a country. I kind of hate us too when I see something like this.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think my corndogs and Hot Pockets are done.

So...You've Just Killed A Hobo

March 9, 2010

So...you've just killed a hobo. You're probably wondering what to do now. I'm here to act as a sounding board and to share some tricks of the trade I've learned over the years and from my vast experience in hobicide.

Your first instinct will be to run and confess. Don't bother. The railroad cops don't care. In fact, in their eyes, that's one less guy they have to chuck out of a boxcar. They may treat you as a hero. They may pat you on the back. They may offer you some soup. Don't let them fool you. The only thing more untrustworthy than a hobo is a railroad cop. He'll knock you upside your head with his lantern and take your socks as soon as your back is turned. Railroad cops are notorious for stealing socks.

First thing you need to do after killing a hobo is ask yourself: Did this hobo deserve to be killed by me? More than likely, the answer is yes. Hobos, much like their alternative counterparts the hippies, generally contribute very little to society. Sure, they've given us some catchy tunes over the years (King of the Road, Conjunction Junction, and Adagio for Strings spring to mind), but for the most part, all they do is eat beans from a can and faintly smell of burnt cabbage. There is the rare occassion when you will discover that no, in fact, that hobo did not deserve to die at your hand. What's past is past, I say. Live for tomorrow, and chalk it up to bad timing on your part.

Next, you may wonder What should I do with this hobo's body? A good question. Again, instinct will tell you to simply roll him out of the car and let someone else deal with him. However, you are forgetting an important detail: Fresh hobo meat is surprisingly tender. The odds are extremely high that your hobo has quietly been stewing himself with 100-proof grain alchohol for quite some time. Consider it a treat for a job well done, and get that open flame going. But Sheldon, you say, isn't that considered cannibilism? Nonsense! Everyone knows that hobos turn into chickens at night. They are very much like werewolves, only more feathery. I mean, really! How do you think KFC continues to be a major player in the fast-food industry? Answer: an endless supply of hobo-chicken hybrids.

You may be tempted to steal the hobo's identity and go across country getting into adventures. This is very tempting. Especially, if you are, say, an insurance adjuster from Lawrence, Kansas. I would advise against it, though. Sure, on the outside, it looks very exciting. Everyone would love to become Gus the Crime-Solving Hobo. However, the fact remains, you probably won't solve many crimes. Hobos are not known for their crime-solving abilities, and if anything, it will make you a target for the other hobos. They tend to be a jealous bunch, and are really looking for any excuse to poke you with the shiv they made out of a hairpin and the neck from a bottle of Old Grandad. Don't tempt fate - just go on about your business.

You may ask, If I do decide to become that hobo, can I ever come back and take my life back should I grow tired of it? I will be honest with you, it's tough. That's not to say it can't be done, but it is rare that someone leaves the world of hobodom, and crosses back into society. Me personally, I've only seen it a few times: John Steinbeck, Boxcar Willie, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, but they really are the exception.

Should I notify the hobo's next of kin? A logical question. The simple answer is no, hobos have no next of kin. Most people don't know this, but hobos grow on a mystical tree in New Jersy. Hoboken, to be exact.

I hope this brief overview has helped, and please feel free to come back to from time to time. Whether you plan on killing hobos as a career or just as a hobby, these simple steps will help you get the most out of your hobo bloodlust. Now, get out there and do some damage.

The 5:06 is running right on time. 

A Gem In The Hand Is Worth Two On The Bush

February 26, 2010

It's official.

I am completely out of the loop. Unhip. Lame. Old.

Secretly, I've suspected this for awhile now. Sure, I try to be hip. I try to be up on the latest pop-culture. I try to be at least marginally familiar with who's hot in music, tv and film. It will be a cold, cold day in hell before I watch anything with the title Jersey Shore, but thanks to The Soup, I'm at the very least aware of the existence of these walking petri dishes.

I try. Yet, as I increasingly realize, I'm not.

I've been taking up space on this planet for 40 years now, and in that time, I've seen a lot of crazy shit that is kind of hard to explain. Max Headroom, Spuds Mackenzie, Ronald Regan. Hard to explain, but you somehow kind of get it - itsort of makes sense. However, sometimes things come along that pretty much stop you dead in your tracks and leave you with your head cocked askew like the RCA dog and your mouth agape.

I have AnniThyme to thank for this latest one. Do you know AnniThyme? If not, you should. She's not your run-of-the-mill tattooed, stepdancing, Irish girl.  She's a wickedly good writer with an evil sense of humor and way with words that will put a lump in your throat, who also happens to be pretty easy on the eyes (as the Future Mrs. Wonderhorse will attest, I do have a certain thing for the redheads. Put it this way, Neko Case could take me to the cleaners, and not only would I happily go, I'd thank her for taking the time out of her day). Anyway, I got an email from her this morning. "Have you seen this? If not, you need to," she says. She then links me to an article about the latest trend among the hip and young. Apparently, if you are a trendy young lass, THE thing to do is to go in, have someone wax all of your pubic hair away, and replace it with a sheet of sparkle-y cubic zirconias.

Yes. Women are BeDazzling their hoo-haa's.

That... is a new one.

I'm not even sure how I would react to seeing one of those. I'm still getting used to the pre-pubescent-girl look that so many are going for; now we have to deal with jewels? Seriously, what is the proper response to that: "Honey, I see your vagina is especially shiney tonight"? That's even before you get down to business. God forbid she flash you that thing in room of lights and mirrors - you could burn out your retnas  before you even get your pants off. Maybe it's just me, but Happy Fun Time shouldn't include the possibility of chipping a tooth or losing a crown.  Note to the ladies: No guy ever wants to hear a CRUNCH when taking care of business there. It's a vagina, not a bag of chips.

Also, if you are going to do all of that, what is expected of me? I mean, just because you have Velvet Betty all dressed up for the opera, don't expect me to shave the 20 Pounds of Dangling Fury down to resemble a tuxedo. That simply isn't going to happen.

 There was a time when I was a lad, you got a look at one, and it looked like an aerial view of Gene Shalit. Now it looks like Liberace. Maybe we've gotten to the point where we are completely bored with our bodies, and we'll do anything we can to liven up the joint. Or maybe we're bombarded with so many bright shiny things everyday, that we don't feel complete if we don't look like a billboard in Tokyo.

Either way, the Future Mrs. Wonderhorse's birthday is coming in a couple of weeks, and I know just what I'm getting for her: a flat-screen tv.

Implanted in my ass.

I Can't Believe That Prostitute Didn't Fall In Love With You

January 15, 2010

I have to say, I'm pretty shocked.

I mean, I thought the two of you really had something. I guess I was wrong. In fact, there's no guessing about it. I was wrong. I was dead wrong. I was about as wrong as you can get. I don't know if it's possible for a person to be more wrong than I was. On the grand scale of wrongness, I'm right up there hovering near the top.

Seriously, man. I can't believe that prostitute didn't fall in love with you. I mean, it was nothing at all like Pretty Woman. Granted, you look nothing like Richard Gere, and she more closely resembled Eric Roberts than Julia, but still.

I can't tell you how red my face is. Well, yeah, I can. It's about as red as your genitals are right now.  She definitely left you with a parting gift, as it were. I don't know what you two were up to, but really, you should probably see someone about that. At least talk to someone about the swelling. Maybe there's a salve you can use.

I'm really at a loss for words. I had such a good feeling about this one. I mean, when you put her up in that hotel, I thought, "Classy. He's got a shot". Sure, it wasn't the Plaza, but you know, Motel 6 is still nice. It's certainly better than sleeping under a bridge. I really thought you were going to seal the deal when you gave her that nice necklace. Hell, I took a look at it, and I thought it was real. But, what did she do? She just grunted, shoved it into her bag, and asked for her $200. Maybe that was a sign we both should have paid more attention to.

Look, you definitely need to take as much time as you need to move on, but you know, maybe this is for the best. I mean, let's say it did work out between you two. Your life wouldn't be any easier than it is now. Big Mike would ALWAYS be coming over, parking his El Dorado out front, leaving his silver-tipped cane and platform shoes all over your place. You don't need that.  Plus, what would you tell your mom -"Sorry, Ma. Crystal couldn't make it to dinner tonight - she got tagged by a John"? Knowing your mom, she'd say, "Who's John?".

I will say this: she was one tough customer. Remember that time we were playing pool at that bar, and that truck-driver tried to get too familiar, and she sliced him with that box-cutter? Where the hell was she hiding that thing?? I swear, I've never seen someone draw so fast in my life. She was like a push-up-bra-and-daisy-dukes-wearing Lone Ranger. Seriously, she's the Jedi Knight of whores. That trucker had no idea what he was stepping into, huh? I'm guessing he might pause a second before he calls someone "Sugar-tits" again.

Oh come on, of course you'll find love again. Because, let's be honest, you didn't really find it in the first place. I think we can both be truthful here - she was only in it for the cash. There's no easy way to put this, but you were used. You were simply a business transaction. That sucks, but it's the truth, and as your friend, I have to tell you the truth. So, yeah. You got screwed and she left. For what it's worth, I'm still here for you, pal. I know, I know. It hurts a lot right now. But, in time, it will heal.

I wish I could say the same thing about your genitals.

Speaking in Tongues

January 5, 2010

It's time for a change.

I've been thinking about this for awhile now, and the time finally seems to be right. I've gone over it and over it, and really, I don't see why I should put it off any longer. In fact, I really can't believe it's taken me this long to take it up. It's been sitting right there in front of me the whole time, just waiting to be plucked. Well, the time is now, it's new leaf time, and I'm giving notice.

I'm going to start speaking with an accent.

I'm very excited about this prospect. I think an accent will give me the kind of gravitas and respect I am so desperately looking for. Finally, people will actually stop and listen to what I'm saying, nodding their head as I spew forth so many foreign pearls of wisdom. As you know, everything sounds more intelligent when said with an accent. Especially a British one. Say what you will about our brothers across the pond, they sound like they know what they're talking about. Deliverance wouldn't have worked nearly as well if it were set in West Brillingshireshire.

For instance, take the sentence "Pardon me ma'am. I seem to have a badger lodged in my nose". Now, say it with a southern accent. Go ahead, I'll wait.

How'd it go? You sound like a mental patient, don't you? A complete lunatic. You say that to someone in downtown Chicago using that accent, I guarantee you the first thing that person will think is, "What kind of backwoods hillbilly is this, and why are they talking to me?".

Now, say that exact same sentence, only using a British accent. You'll have a dozen people surrounding you within seconds offering to help you with badger removal. People you've never met will start whipping out badger extraction kits quicker than you can say "Henry the VIIIth". Suddenly, you've gone from being a yokel to absolutely delightful! I don't know that I've EVER been absolutely delightful, and dammit, it's about time I give it a try.

I'm thinking I may even switch the accent up from time to time, depending on the situation. Since I'm already Irish, I can throw down a brogue on a moments notice. I can see where that could come in really handy. Especially at a bar. I let loose with an Irish brougue here in the states, and before I know it, I'll be bombarded with pints of Guinness and shots of Jamison's. Let me tell you, if you're going to be bombarded with anything, you can do a lot worse than those two treats.

I may even let fly with a Scottish accent every now and then. Especially if I want to be left alone or just screw with peoples heads. I love the look people give you when you start using a lot "Aachhs" and trills and are trying to figure out what the hell you're saying. Plus, thanks to Groundskeeper Willie, people know that Scots tend to be on the temperamental side, so there's a good chance they'll pretty much steer clear, lest they get a lecture about sheep stomachs and a punch to the face.

Yessir, soon I'll be pip-pipping with the best of 'em.  I'll be taking lifts, living in flats, watching the telly, taking the pram out for a stroll and carrying a bumbershoot.  Respect, come on in and have a seat. I hope you enjoy your stay.

Cheerio.

Martha Stewart Takes a Pork Shank to the Kidneys

November 24, 2009

Not to be done by her arch-rival, Martha Stewart held a press-conference yesterday in which she took repeated blows to her kidneys by her assistant wielding a pork shank.

 

Earlier this week, Paula Deen was hit in the face with a ham, but suffered no serious injuries. Stewart, clad in a smart business-suit, issued the following statement:

"While I appreciate the tenacity of Ms. Deen and am happy she is recovering, she is simply a pretender to the throne. I took a ham to the face when I was still in my teens, and you didn't see me making a big deal of it. Deen is just a pussy with a goofy accent, and to prove it, I would like to introduce my assistant Rochelle, who will pummel me with a pork shank."

Rochelle Matthews, her beautiful 25-year-old assistant, then walked out carrying the 8-pound shank. The two then reenacted the "Hit me in the face" scene from Raging Bull.

Stewart, 68, took the first three blows without even flinching. However, Matthews seemed to go off script, when she continued to hit her with the meat, each swing with increased intensity. Stewart did manage to get in a jab that seemed to momentarily knock the breath out of Matthews, but Matthews came back swinging. Finally, the two were seperated and pulled apart. Matthews could be heard shouting, "That's for giving me a spray-painted pine-cone for Christmas last year, you cheap, dirty whore!", as she was loaded into a car and driven away.

Stewart, whose eye was begining to swell shut, was asked about the punch she administered to Matthews. "I learned that in the joint. Bitches were always getting all up in my grill."

Stewart then wowed the reporters by fashioning a splint out of onionskins, coriander, and hair gel.

For the Love of God, Please Hold the Jack Sauce

November 10, 2009

I got thinking about fast food today.

Jack in the Box, in particular.

You see, Jack in the Box recently expanded into Colorado, and now I'm starting to see their creepy little white clown head mascot pop up everywhere.

 

I refuse to eat at Jack in the Box for a couple of reasons. One, their website fails to mention the little incident they had back in the 90's. Remember that one? The one where they were serving up burgers swimming in E. coli? Yeah, they kind of hoped you forgot about that. I can't really, since one of my cousins bit into one of those burger-flavored petri-dishes and damn near died.  But that's not the main reason I won't eat there. Nope, the main reason can be summed up in two words:

Jack Sauce.

That's the stuff they used to put on their burgers. Jack Sauce. I'm guessing it was probably that Thousand Island + ketchup combo that so many fast food places use, but still, you couldn't come up with a better name than Jack Sauce? For all I know, it could taste like chocolate gold, but all I can see in my head is biting into a burger dripping with some fry-cook's spooge. I know I'm not the only one to think that, either.

This really can't be a surprise to them. In fact, looking at their website, I see they've actually changed the name from Jack Sauce to Jack's Famous Secret Sauce, which is almost worse. Like Jack has been saving up his special sauce for your burger. Only now, instead of a fry-cook, I picture a swarthier Larry Dallas from Three's Company saying, "I've been working on something JUST for you, but DON'T TELL ANYONE! It's a SECRET!", while he works himself up into a lather, followed by a creepy wink.

Even if it is the Thousand Island concoction, who the fuck asks for salad dressing on a hamburger? If you are going to do that, you might as well ask for a donut dipped in Liquid Plummer. It makes about as much sense. I truly believe if you walked into Charlie Trotter's restaurant and asked for a steak smothered in salad dressing, the cook should be able to come out and legally beat you to death. Even more, I don't think a jury in the world would convict him. "Well, your honor, first he asked for salad dressing on his steak, then he shoved a twice-baked potato down his pants, and walked out wearing shoes made of Legos. Clearly, he was derranged."

Case dismissed.

Maybe it's just the world we live in now, or just the fact that I have the emotional development of a 13-year-old, but I'm thinking you should leave the word "Jack" out of most restaurants. I'll give you pepper-jack cheese, but really, the Jumbo Jack? It is physically impossible for me to tell a 16-year-old counter worker that I would love a Jumbo Jack, without giggling like mental patient. Because, really, who wouldn't enjoy a Jumbo Jack, when you get right down to it? Trust me, you ask for a Jumbo Jack anywhere else, you will have a court date in your future. Learned that the hard way.

They also serve something called a Bonus Jack. I'll be honest with you, one Jack is really all I'm good for. I'm too tired for a Bonus Jack. As the great Clevon Little once said, "Baby, I am not from Havana."

Now, I'm off to Carl's Jr. for a Thick and Juicy.