Friday, March 23, 2007
Not everything technically marked as "food" is edible. You can't just go stuffing every so-called food item down your throat all willy nilly, without asking questions. For instance:
Liver is often considered a food, but have you smelled that shit cooking? It smells like a decomposing corpse inexplicably being heated on the stovetop. And the biggest telltale sign that it's not meant to be eaten is that no one bothered to dress it up with an acceptable name. You know, like when you eat dead pig, it's daintily called 'pork.' And when you eat cow carcass, it's politely referred to as 'beef,' 'hamburger' or 'steak.' No one ever intended you to eat liver, or they would have come up with a palate-friendly name for it, like 'binket' or 'dwan.' Would you eat spleen? Ovary? How about lung? Then liver is likewise not edible.
Yams. I've seen people eat yams--and no, they weren't starving waifs who had to dive into dumpsters for sustenance. They chose to eat yams--in spite of the fact that yams look like something a Beagle recently gave birth to. Not edible, unless you also snack on Beagle placenta.
Mincemeat pie is an abomination. At no time should the words "meat" and "pie" ever be in the same sentence, much less in the same word. Otherwise, what's to stop us from sitting down to Pig's Feet Pie or Pork Meringue Surprise next Thanksgiving? Trust me, not edible.
Clam chowder. I've never actually tried this, but that's only because I don't eat anything that looks like a hobo just puked it up. However, if I were, by some strange miracle, to be talked into eating puke, it would have to be because it was at least given a tantalizing name to lure me in. If someone were to ask any normal, right-thinking person if they'd like a bowl of clam chowder, the only possible response should be, "Fuck you and the hobo you've been partying with!" Only in select situations should you ever consider eating anything with the word 'clam' in the title, and never should you eat anything described as 'chowder.' Why? Uh, not edible.
Cheerio Sandwiches. Sudiegirl claims it's perfectly okay to eat Cheerios-and-peanut butter sammiches. But she's nuts, so don't listen to her. I see her train of thought--"Cheerios are good. Bread is good. Peanut butter is good. I have an idea! Let's smash them all together in a pile and I bet they'll be great!" Those old Reese's Peanut Butter Cup commercials started this kind of thinking, ("Hey, your chocolate got into my peanut butter!" "Your peanut butter got into my chocolate!" Two great tastes that taste great together!) and I'm here to put a stop to it--it's just wrong and dangerous. Try applying that logic elsewhere and you'll see. "Babies are good. Rock concerts are good. I have an idea! Let's take our 6-week-old twins to see Rob Zombie!" Bad idea. Also: "Moms are good. Sex is good. I have an idea...." See? It's a slippery slope that starts with a few ridiculous food combinations and ends with deaf babies and mom rape. So, Cheerios Sandwiches? Not edible.
There's a lot more inedible foods than what I've listed here, so feel free to remind me of any I've left out--but just typing out this short list has made me nauseous. I'm going to go puke up some chowder.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
"What?!" I can hear you shouting drunkenly at your computer monitor, sending a nearby cluster of roaches scuttling hither and yon. "You're pregnant?! You never said anything about being pregnant!"
Look, asshole. I don't tell you everything. What, you want to hear everything? Is that what you want this blog to be about? Okay, how's this:
My shoes are kind of hurting my feet right now. They're old and should probably be replaced, but they're so cute! I love them, and they don't make this style anymore. I should know, I've checked every bloody shoe store in town--no dice. So I took these to the shoe repair shop and had the super-nice Asian guy who can't understand a thing I say repair the little rip in the seam, and he only charged me eight bucks. Good as new! Except that they hurt my feet, and they didn't used to do that. I guess that's what happens when the soles gets worn down, or whatever. Oh, I could just 'get over it' and go buy a different pair, but did I mention how cute these are? So, so, so cute. I have a hard time finding just the right style AND just the right heel height AND just the right color AND at just the right price, all in one shoe--know what I mean? It's funny, I have SO many pairs of shoes in my closet, but I wear this one pair, like, 90% of the time! Just like I was saying to my sister the other day....
You see? You see what this blog devolves into when I start puking up every thought in my head, every mundane fact about my life? Be glad I keep it neat, only posting about once a week criticize the entire human race, and take potshots at Dyckerson and Wombat.
At any rate, back to my fashion dilemma. Normally I'd be happy to look for something to wear to this wedding; girls love to get dressed up. Unless, of course, they've recently developed a grossly distorted, tumor-like mass in their mid-section that makes literally every cute/pretty/elegant clothing item look like an old shower curtain on them. When trying on dresses today, I looked a little bit like a Dow scrubbing bubble in most of them. Okay, I may be exaggerating a little bit--I'm only four and a half months along right now. But still, that means I already have no waist left, and it turns out that most dresses are made by and for people who have a waist.
So, since I can't look glamorous, cute, elegant or pretty at this wedding, I'm going to try for a different approach altogether--I'm going for outrageous and different. Kind of like when some kids turn 14 and realize they're not turning out to be as attractive as they'd hoped, so they opt to put 42 piercings in their body, color their hair fuchsia and wear packing materials as clothing, with the idea that if they can't compete, they can at least stand out. Suddenly, this dreaded task becomes fun! Now to narrow down my options.
I could go in full scuba gear. I will refuse to take my scuba mask off even while eating wedding cake, and whenever I go I will move my arms in a swimming motion. I'm still debating on whether to also carry a spear.
I could go in a wrestling singlet, which I've already made clear my great love for. At the reception, everyone else will be drinking and having a great time, rudely oblivious to my jealousy, unable as I am to drink for the entirely of my gestation (or my parole). To avenge my anger, I will randomly pin members of the wedding party to the floor in a wrestling hold.
I could go dressed as the Hamburglar. I will reply to every question asked of me with "robble robble," and when moving from place to place, I will dash furtively rather than walking.
I could go in a gladiator costume, complete with helmet and sword. When the preacher says, "I now present Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So," I will stand up and shout, "At my signal, unleash hell!"
I know it's rude and wrong of me to take my fashion frustration out on the perfectly likable couple getting married. But I think I've come a long way in my anger management. Whereas years ago I might have vented my unhappiness by sleeping with my boss's wife, slaughtering a family of five, or urinating on gradeschooler, these days the kinder, mellower Karla has toned it down, merely dressing inappropriately at a wedding. Baby steps, see?
Of course, my final outfit hasn't yet been decided, so if any of you have experience in outfitting Mr. Potato Head, Humpty Dumpty or a Weeble, I'll consider any advice you might have for what I should wear.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Do any of you know how to get around the copyright protection on a videotape? Yes, I said videotape. Remember those? From back in the '80s? That used to be your main vehicle for pornography before DVDs, web cams and spying on your mom in the shower were invented. I never thought I'd find a need to watch another of those ancient relics again, but a need has indeed arisen, and since I don't even own a VCR, I have to first get my mother-in-law to copy the VHS tape to DVD.
Don't worry, it's not pornography--I wouldn't ask my mother-in-law to copy porno for me. It's a workout video for a class I have to teach at my gym. Did you know I'm a fitness instructor? No? That's because I didn't bother to tell you, since research indicates that only .004% of you have ever seen the inside of a gym unless you were loaded on mushrooms and wandered into one upon mistaking it for a sex shop.
Either way, I'm calling upon you to help me figure out how to get around the copyright protection on this videotape so we can burn it to DVD. After a lifetime spent wreaking havoc and causing misery, you finally get a chance to do something useful.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
I suggest you try to re-write this article posted on MSNBC titled "10 tips: What to do when a cop pulls you over."
After perusing the article, I can understand why Anonymous wanted it rewritten--it's as boring as a night in bed with Dyckerson. And clearly, it was written by some goody two-shoes merely speculating on how to get out of a ticket, rather than someone who has real-world experience in the matter. Allow me to impart to you some of my vast wisdom on this subject.
We've all been there--some of us more often than others. It's always nerve-wracking to see those flashing lights behind your car, but trust me, it gets easier with time. The first time it happens to you, you're likely to sit there rigidly gripping the steering wheel in frozen panic like an amateur, sweating and stammering while the cop speaks to you like a stern father speaks to a misbehaving 5-year-old. But by the 90th or 185th time, you'll be smiling with confidence as you stealthily cram your bag of crack cocaine into the hidden compartment you've carved into your steering column. Confidence comes with time, but here are a few tips to keep in mind until you've gotten a few hundred practice arrests under your belt.
1. Don’t try anything funny. As the police officer is approaching your car, he's got a keen eye trained on the rear window of your car. He's looking for signs that you're furtively stashing beer cans, reaching for a gun, or doing something else illegal or dangerous. Don't raise his suspicions by leaning across the seat to rummage through the glove compartment for your insurance card--he may interpret that the wrong way. Sit calmly as he approaches, and avoid doing anything more dramatic than removing every single scrap of clothing you're wearing so that you're completely nude when he gets to your window. Absent-mindedly massage your breasts as you talk to him.
(If you're thinking I'm making the mistake of tailoring this article specifically to women and forgetting that men will also be reading it and trying to figure out how it can apply to them, then you haven't met my male readers. 98% of them get mistaken for women on a regular basis, and the other 2% are pre-op. Trust me, I know what I'm doing here.)
2. Keep the chatter to a minimum. Nervousness often causes people to blab too much, which is bad for three reasons: 1) The cop will see that you're nervous, and wonder if you have something to hide, 2) He'll find the inane blather irritating and distracting, and 3) You might reveal something that can be used against you. It's always best to say as little as possible. When he leans in to look suspiciously around the interior of your vehicle with his flashlight, and asks, "Is there anything in here I should know about?" do NOT respond with, "They told me it was legal to take immigrants across the border," or worse, "I swear to God, those immigrants were alive when we left Nogales."
3. Try asking to be let off with a warning. It never hurts to ask, and it just might work, since giving you a warning is easier for the policeman than writing out your ticket and filing the paperwork that goes along with it. But the key is to be polite and respectful. Say something like, "Officer, since this is my first offense, and I've never been arrested for murder or even questioned in a murder case, would it be possible to get a warning this one time? I'll leave here and dispose of the body immediately instead of continuing to drive around with it draped across my lap like this."
4. Be prepared to react appropriately. The smaller offenses are, of course, the easier ones to weasel out of. The moment you see the lights flashing behind you, you know exactly how major your infraction is, and can immediately asess how difficult or easy it might be to get out of a ticket. Speeding? There's a fair chance you can talk your way out of that one if you play it right. Drugs? If you can stash them quickly and remain nonchalant and calm when talking to the cop, you might not get caught. But if you have a cooler of freshly-harvested human kidneys in the seat next to you, you've got a situation on your hands. At a time like that, your best option may be to fake your own death. Then hopefully you can jump up and sneak out of the morgue later when no one's looking.
5. Come up with a plausible excuse for your infraction. When a cop asks, "Why were you driving so fast?" he's not trying to prolong your humiliation, he's honestly curious about your motivation. It's an amateur's mistake to get surly and refuse to answer, or to insult the officer's intelligence by denying that you were speeding. Respond as genuinely as possible, looking him directly in the eye, and say, "I'm so sorry, Officer, I know I was speeding. I get very anxious and tense when I go more than a day or so without performing oral sex on a man in uniform. It's been 3 days now, and I don't know how much more of this I can take." You'll find that most police officers are more sympathetic than you'd think.
So there you have it: Real-life advice from a person who knows. These tactics have worked for me time and time again, although, admittedly, they're not fail-proof. Sometimes you have to sleep with a judge or two, or have a threesome with a couple of jurors. But I'll save that for a future article. In the meantime, I think you'll do just fine if you can skillfully apply my advice to unwanted interactions with officers of the law.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
I was only able to come up with) 5 Things I'd Rather Be Doing Right Now:
1) Taking a meat tenderizer to the skull of the unidentified whore who last used the bathroom at my workplace, and peed on the toilet seat. (And just to be clear, I'm talking about a meat tenderizer mallet, not the stuff you sprinkle on. Although, now that I think about it, I might be interested in using the two together, for some added humiliation.)
2) Bringing back the word "cooze."What ever happened to this gem? Go ahead, call me old fashioned, but I long for the good old days.
3) Discovering a way to abet without first having to get mired in the cumbersome task of aiding.
4) Inventing a vastly improved bulb syringe. These ancient relics have been around since babies were first invented, and are still the only known way to clean out an infant's snotty nose until said infant gets old enough to understand how to blow his own nose. Basically, the thing resembles a turkey baster--you squeeze the bulb, then insert the pointy tip into the flailing child's nose and release the bulb so that it sucks out the snot amidst the high-pitched screams of what sounds like a badger on fire. No changes have been made to this product since its creation. The lack of advancement in this important area of medical science is unforgivable. I would like to invent one of these that is powered by a sizable motor, to vigorously suck the snot out of the child's nose rather relying on hand pumping--kind of like a mini-Shop Vac. I doubt this will make an unpleasant experience any better for the baby, but I think parents will enjoy it because who doesn't love cranking up a big, noisy motor? That and the digital color display will make this product a big hit.
5) Napping on the couch while a team of Cambodian slave children clean my house from top to bottom, and then toilet-paper my neighbors' trees.
10 Least Favorite Aromas:
1) Decomposing human corpse. (Why is it that the elderly dead smell worse than the 12-and-under crowd?)
2) Urine, particularly my own, particularly in hour 5 after I've wet myself early in my workday.
3) The combination of sprinkle-on meat tenderizer and human cranial blood.
4) The smell of liver cooking. This food smells so vile while cooking that, just to be safe, I avoid cooking anything at all, just in case it's really liver in disguise.
5) Whiskey. Most liquor is a beautiful thing, but whiskey just plain reeks. Let's all agree there are better ways to wash away memories of sex with a spouse, shall we?
6) Vanilla or cinnamon air-fresheners in restrooms. Are you one of those people who uses a plug-in air fresheners in your bathroom that smells like food? Is it because you're perpetually high? Does the smell of doo-doo ever mix well with the smell of food? And it's not just vanilla and cinnamon anymore, either--the other day I saw one that was apple pie scented. Holy pie-scented shit, Batman.
7) The smell of fear so often prevalent when a yellow-bellied Maryland sissyboy comes face-to-face (or crotch to back) with a mechanical bull. Also, the smell of feces that comes shortly afterward.
8) Feet, unless prosthetic. Those smell kind of oaky and nice.
9) Public restrooms, which is why I now avoid them entirely by relieving myself just outside the bathroom door.