i just spent 3 hours going from a French-audio news story I barely understood about Catalonia to looking up pictures of Kim Jong-il on escalators. Good night, internet. Clearly it’s too late for me to have one.
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Crucial correction: a recent study has revealed that I have indeed eaten peanut butter before. I hated it. Most commonly before I could read, inside brown, chocolate-looking deceptions.
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“Taste the flavors, as nature intended.”
I do not think, if nature had intentions, that one would be for us to chop animals into pieces and then stuff the pieces into little rectangular packages. I think nature’s promises would look more like…
Stix. There was a time when people put food on sticks. That was too complicated. What if you accidentally ate the stick? What if you accidentally jammed the stick into your ear? Now food IS sticks. Excuse me, stix. This is very important, evidently. Much easier and safer. But wait, Fribbage, you say. Wouldn’t removing the stick result in less non-food matter being wasted and discarded? Ah ha! Research has shown that stixifying edible objects allows them to be encased in non-biodegradable material where previously nobody would have bothered.
You might have thought: apples, those are easy! one of the most overproduced and underwhelming fruits on earth. There is no place that sells food where they cannot be obtained. Packaging them is totally unnecessary. WRONG. You neglected to consider the stix factor. Could I cut the apple into stix on my own? No, I could not. By expending the slightest bit of effort, could I remove any trace of a perceived need for another plastic-wasting piece of supermarketfluousness?
I suppose you think these are just regular dumb old raisins that somebody tossed in a structurally unremarkable box behind a picture of Highschool and Musical.
Maybe you think, if it’s REAL FRUIT, with a flashy little graphic saying so, why don’t I just BUY FRUIT? Do not agree, I am mocking you! Consider that “fruit” never has print testifying to it being real fruit. If it doesn’t come in a bag, how are we going to write what’s in it? More importantly, how are we going to put pictures of cartoon characters on it?
This picture is from 2008! Disney appealing this rule was to everyone’s benefit. Goofs are good for business.
True enough, there were those apples whose stickers had a picture of Garfield-the-cat’s head with a barcode frightfully superimposed over his teeth, but stickers are only there to annoy people, and to make consuming the fruit a frightful, obsessive compulsion triggering-ordeal, either when removing and disposing of the things or discovering them permanently adhered to a common household surface when a fellow resident fails at the task. They have no practical function. Fruit stix are much safer, and better to give your kids than Dunkaroos, much as having a pumpkin thrown at you is better than having a used diaper thrown at you.
I hsve often remarked at the ingenuity of Captain Crunch, who could not create real doughnuts or chocolate and so synthesized both, but Little Debbie raised the bar so high that it fell off the supports by failing to even achieve the shape. Worse, she could not spell stix properly. Since there is no Food and Drug Administration definition of what cannot be stix, I don’t know why Debbie would let such an obvious quality error past her diabetic shock fixed gaze.
Glix Stix! Just like glow stix but with less nutritive value.
Is there nothing we cannot make into stix? Is there nothing we cannot make into Pringles? Unlike a majority of similarly-shaped items, Pringles already weren’t potato chips, and now they are less than that. They weren’t about to let somebody else get the jump on their not-quite-being a regulated commodity celebration. Also, though they dare call themselves neither chip nor stick, “PIZZA” is still a-o-k.
Pringles are also mutltigrain. Not quite whole grain, and not quite food, but wow they sure feel healthy when they have the word grain printed on their tubes!
Kid Cuisine Snack Stix. These are undoubtedly created from the remains of that really loopy-looking mascot seen on the packages through much of 2011.
Though stix-like food was still a factor. Oddly enough less stick-like than a real hotdog. Better poke it with a fork just to make sure it’s dead.
My picture from the store was blurry, perhaps a self-defense mechanism by my camera, so I looked for other people’s pictures of queasine stix. This one is still of minimal quality, but that hasn’t been a factor yet today, and I was fascinated by the picture of the little penguin, also a Martin Short fan, evidenced by the Ed Grimley hair style, stepping on a fute ball while reciting a hubris-filled monologue at the poor hopeless stixling. Sportly imagery is always a good hint that the brand has been criticized for being rubbish, like when Ronald McDonald inexplicably took up basketball in the mid 1990s. Subtly imply that eaters should engage in heavy aerobics prior to eating (or in this case just step on a ball and imagine you might), because changing the product would amount to admitting that it was rubbish, and make you liable in the lawsuits filed against you for selling rubbish and pretending it was food for years and years. Also, if the product itself were changed to be less rubbishy, then people would notice it was different, and this awareness might make them realize they were eating frozen, reheated tubes of goops that they could buy fresh, in jars, at much higher quantities for less money.
There, again! I have never eaten peanut butter or jelly in my life, nor have I in anyone else’s life, but it certainly LOOKS delicious here. And by grebij, it has NO high fructose corn syrup in it! That’s a bonus! A health benefit! Instead of using less sugar, you can use the same amount and boast that you didn’t use a different kind of sugar! It wants you to be impressed not because it did something good, but merely that it resisted doing something bad, even though it actually did, just under a different name. The anti corn syrup hype subdued the too much sugar hype and then they both wondered “why are we fighting each other?” The Westboro Baptist church website should have a glossy seal on it that says “contains no racism!”
and we are completely helpless.
Meanwhile, the artist is hopeless.
On April 3 I was waiting for a bus, with a plastic bag containing three boxes of cookies. This was one of the boxes. It is the subject of the following sentences and perhaps that is why I have no picture of the other two boxes, which came from different manufacturers. The cookies were to be eaten during an art show reception I was participating in that I suspect I will never get around to writing about. Certainly I would want people to show up to look at the artwork rather than to eat the cookies, but I had already seen the art and needed something else to occupy myself with.
A woman and man were also waiting for the same bus I was. They were beside a tree so I stood on the other side of the tree. It was unusual for anyone else to be waiting in this place, and it was also unusual for me to travel with such a large quantity of cookies. These two factors would combine in a most tragic circumstance.
The woman walked in front of the tree, so that she was almost in the street, looked over my bag and spoke. This was immediately bad news. Ordinarily nobody speaks to me in public except to ask me for money. This time it was worse.
I responded to the effect of “I try.” I eat a lot of garbage. Not as much as I once did.
The person pronounced “GMOs” like “jeeyemoze.” If I didn’t know what GMOs were genetically modified organisms already and that this person was pronouncing the letters in an abbreviation, the statement ought to have confounded me, so clearly I had to already know what GMOs were and did, and yet the person spoke as if she an adolescent telling a younger sibling that Santa Claus didn’t exist as petty revenge.
I believe, but cannot confirm, that I responded “anything you buy at a supermarket is going to kill you.” Perhaps I should have said “get away from me, you presumptuous tub” but I am never at my best while waiting for a bus.
The person replied, still looking at my bag, undeterred by my lack of mindblow,
She waited a moment, and before I could ask “do you grow your own food?”, and perhaps I wouldn’t have, because my immediate goal was to make her voice stop, she curtly remarked
I was too filled with hate to respond.
By the time it was a feasible option we were on the bus and I preferred, for the moment, unfulfilled resentment to attempting to speak to someone like that. It was far safer for me to silently hate her and myself than to risk the hate being focused on her exclusively, who had not had thirty years to develop antibodies for it. The fact that I hated myself for not focusing my hate on the woman is a marvel of evolution.
I object to a stranger telling me that I “should” do something, and I object to a stranger assuming I lack knowledge, and I object to Hi and Lois.
I was immediately reminded that four days earlier one of my more virally-minded face-book relations reposted this image, which mixes specific brands with general company names and seems to think Nestlé, one of the largest food companies in the world is a product of its considerably smaller and exclusively confection-focused competitor The Hershey Company. Both have been known to profit from exploitative labor used to obtain their chocolate, though Hershey has at least expressed a willingness to change that. In 2012. There is no wrong reason to boycott Nestlé.
Indeed most of these companies have been selling massively processed, sugar-soaked, salt-smothered de facto poison for more than half a century, for much of that with full knowledge of the long-term health effects of consuming such things. Why have I never been pestered about for drinking Coca Cola in public, but this harmless closed box is a problem? Because there was no mass-repostable graphic that said to harass Coke-swallowers recently. You would have had to actually read paragraphs about it and reach a conclusion on your own to realize it was garbage. Or look at the back of the packaging.
The boycott picture doesn’t say “GMO” on it anywhere, so it is likely that my informant also found a smirky, kony-esque video to go into scantily more detail.
Or perhaps she saw this graphic and realized oh no, three letters! That’s at least two thirds as bad as MSG!
I actually DID “google” it and the very first image was one which gave no information at all beyond ooh dass bad! In fact I was so sure it would that I wrote the part referring to “this graphic” prior to my finding and placing it here. Perhaps I should have used the text search, but I was only instructed to employ google and not any specific google function.
I am concerned that gmo is approaching southern connecticut from two different directions but for the moment I am safe.
Fortunately, no GMO comes in all these stylish and delicious flavors, which can never be used to misdirect public opinion. I just hope none of these graphics contain JPG.
I am fortunate that I correctly assumed she meant google and not googol, a number which is 1 followed by one hundred zeroes, because I probably would have run out of money buying that many gmos.
So bus stop lady now has terminator lock-on vision that can seek out a kashi logo at 30 feet behind any non-lead obstruction. It’s like smoking a cigarette in the 1990s, this week, except we got off the bus at the smokiest bus stop in town, where every third person is smoking a cigarette, spitting after smoking one or selling cigarettes to somebody else, and she didn’t accost anybody. It is no longer trendy to pester cigarette smokers because the government does it already by putting six dollars worth of federal, state and local taxes on a single little box of them. Mission accomplished. The woman also managed to get past the Duncan Donuts and Subway stores across the street (and presumably every other street in New Haven) without procuring a megaphone and yelling JEEYEMMOHZ at exiting customers.
it is possible that as a buyer of “organic” goods I seemed like somebody with an inflated sense of superiority that needed to be ruptured. In fact, any remotely edible thing I had that was in a box would have jammyohs in it. “organic” is the enemy specifically because it thinks it’s better but perhaps is not, in all cases. I can understand resenting that. The goal was not to enrich my life with health advice –not she nor the poster suggested any alternative, GMO-free products– just to get me off my high horse. However, I have also been avoiding high horses ever since I found out they were enriched with MLP.
Perhaps it is unrealistic to expect somebody to say:
However, this would have exhibited knowledge and good intentions, rather than grasping at an opportunity to inflict inferiority on somebody you know nothing about, with no provocation. It might also have encouraged conversation (provided there was a pause after the initial question), rather than scorn. Fortunately my scorn is all natural.
I like the idea of viral hypey thoughtlessness actually being put toward a useful cause, but it probably isn’t going to change anything, because it is still thoughtless, and when it’s one of my own causes I become inclined to dislike it out of spite. Nobody involved is going to learn anything. If GMO is defeated and removed from food but replaced by DDT or BVD or MXY or POG then these people won’t take it on themselves to find out, and won’t believe a suggestion from somebody else unless it is communicated on the same terms used by people selling it to them.
The woman didn’t say anything about me having three boxes of cookies, either, which are inherently lethal. “you like to eat a lot of cookies, huh? Cookies have fat and sugar in them, you should hotbot it.”
She was right that the single Kashi allotment were the worst of the bunch. I didn’t get to eat one but they felt weird. I would have known not to buy them in the future without any outside influence decreeing it.
Tuesday: alas, my inability to fulfill my hope is not irregular at all.
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I shall return to my regular quarters on Tuesday. Hopefully that will permit me to resume irregularity.
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May 27, no major dope news to report.
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I recently was looking through some of the sketchbook pages I had computer-scanned up to now, and came across a letter I had quite some while ago sent to somebody after also scanning. Included in the letter, and perhaps the reason i am no longer on any terms with the recipient, was a tiny drawing in the lower left corner. Since i thought i might want to investigate the image more thoroughly later without having to be reminded of the awful words, I cropped the image and saved it seperately. Without thinking (its subject matter made thought unwelcome) i named it “captaindope.png.” This morning (February 13) it suddenly struck me:
CAPTAIN DOPE?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?
Who gave it that rank? Who commissioned it? Who promoted it? Why is it such a prestigious naval officer? captain dope outranks Lieutenant Dan!
I am not personally fond of Forrest Gump or his film but I sympathize with Lieutenant Dan, especially when his orders come down the line directly from captain dope. Forrest Gump has many skills by accident. The dope has NO SKILLS on PURPOSE (with NO purpose). I would NEVER obey ONE order that came from captain dope. If IT ordered me to not jump off the ship that is precisely what I would do! And no, captain dope is not smart enough to utilize reverse psychology. It isn’t smart enough for most things. Its only ability is to stand there and smile. and by the way if I stayed on board I would go over the waterfall.
Who put the dope in a sailboat and who put a hat on it?
This isn’t the first time; a recurring unstandability of mine is that some dopes will randomly be wearing hats. who is the rogue maniac traveling the lands putting hats on dopes? obviously dopes do not put hats on themselves. I get the impression they “know” how much stupider they look and become accordingly more oppressive, however.
I DEMAND that a dumpster be brought on board so that captain dope can be tossed into it. captain dope is even less qualified than captain crunch, the man who orders himself to crunchatize himself and once “accidentally” turned all his cereal into choco donuts (not to be confused with chocolate doughnuts, which choco donuts meet neither legal minimum requirement for).
Captain Crunch, who apparently recently started an internet video series where he is made of paper and re-enacts classic comedy bits from trailers to cg animation movies (screaming for no reason). Oh yes and shills for sugar-encrusted bits of gravel intended to function as meals for children. Keep on reaching, dope.
I question whether that is the real captain in the video. First of all, his mouth isn’t open nearly wide enough, and also his eyes are firmly embedded in his head. To have captain dope aspire to be an imposter of someone so amoral is just icing on the icing (cake would be too nutritious).
Our crack reading team is currently investigating other reasons to avoid cake.
I keep seeing this and forgetting that I sent it to myself.
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Charlie should not make pizza. By someone’s definition (Charlie’s) this is considered pizza. Who else has bad definitions of pizza?
I don’t know what one tastes like hot, but a cold domino’s pizza tastes like a bag of pizza combos pre-trans fat makeover. Which explains at last why the combos people think that tastes like pizza. According to legend, this pizza has bacon on it. i think an Egg McMuffin would have more bacon on it. I hesitate to add the clincher “and an egg mcmuffin has SAUSAGE on it” for I suspect even that may be hard to prove.
The process of explaining how I came into possession of this object incriminates some individuals who probably deserve better than to be incriminated over pizza.
Sometimes when you end up a with watery base, Eggo wafflish crust, almost pink tomato sauce, and a cheese layer that seems to be a single unit, you can make the excuse no this isn’t misguided chefmanship, it’s Greek style pizza. I no wonder why they’re always smashing plates. It would be fine if they used good ingredients, but they never will. I formed that hypothesis a few years before the Greek economy became an international liability and I won’t go so far as to blame a complex issue far older than our limited American awareness of it that is bringing suffering to millions of people whose governments increasingly punish their own citizens to maintain their own pointless wealth on bad pizza. Rather, it’s probably a combination of that and all the broken plates. But Domino’s doesn’t even have cultural differences to blame its inadequacy on; rather, it is perfectly matched with the culture that it offers service to, which is why it stays in business.
The only remotely ethnic restaurant I ever saw dominoes in was a pan-Asian establishment and it knew better than to serve pizza. The chefs there stick to what they know and preserve their dignity.
Yerp, pizza combos, pizza rolls, pizza pockets, pizza goldfish, pizza PRINGLES. None of these taste at all like pizza, but I bought them all, many times, even once I knew it. The goldfish just tasted like regular goldfish with random flavored salt on them, but the pringles were notably bad and chemical aftertaste-y. Yet I bought them again.
We just like things to have “pizza” in their names and we don’t hold them to any standard unless they ARE pizzas, and sometimes not even then. Even after swearing off Red Baron, Totino and Elio pizzas* I continued eating the lousy pringles. Pizza flavored non-pizzas seem to get a free pass. (*I never ate a Tony’s
To your amazement, no doubt. If I wasn’t enticed by smooth plastic fisher price playhouse pizza surely the creepy Drew Friedman airbrush kid would seal the meal)
It’s become a routine. We think we like pizza because we remember liking pizza, but clearly we’re bored with it. What if we could have pizza as potato chips?
Or what if we could eat it out of a starchy carbohydrate sock instead of slices? Slices are so HARD.
Shooting the ad with a green screen box to accommodate different regional sub brands without refilming the same great great scenes with the same great, great song where there’s no conspicuous lyrical void allowing for the insertion of “Ellio’s” as the situation demands has the additional benefit of making the product seem real and valid compared to the very fake looking packaging.
This at least solves my problem of not being able to take a bath because it interfered with my ability to eat pizza-derived products at all times.
More recently, I attempted a semi-local non-chain that was pledged to be “cheaper” than what I prefer. I had to conclude that it tasted like that kind of pizza I get when somebody who doesn’t really know me says “hey come over we’re getting pizza.” I’d wonder where the hamburglar did you FIND this? I’ve lived here for ten years and never had a pizza this bad. Why do you think this is GOOD? Pizza parties are the worst. I get two slices at most and then have to wait around not eating pizza or talking to people because I resent them for not buying enough bad pizza. How’s that fun? I can’t stand it. The pizza here was actually tolerable but it reminded me of that.
This does remind me, or it did before so many digressions and inserts that I no longer recall what actually reminded me: did you hear that the mcribs are “back?” I did, despite neither caring nor being aware that it had gone anywhere except directly into a toilet. Mcrib is the dumbest scam. “It” never goes away, but it’s always coming back, and then I’m always hearing that it’s coming back. It’s never national news that Chicken McNuggets are still here, even if we as living beings really ought to be outraged every day that they are. The official story is that mcribs were devised during a mcnugget shortage, in fat, but considering how simple a matter it is to fake a shortage of natural earth resources to push up their prices, imagine how much more easy it must be to fake a scarcity of something that’s not supposed to exist at all and very easily might not.
Also it’s the McRib, rather than the McRibs, or some McRib sandwiches. There’s just one riboid that returns year after year, because like other menu items it never decomposes and nobody wants to eat it. There’s nothing special in McRibs that should cause them to be scarce. We already went over this. Pay attention. It’s the same stuff that’s in the hamburgers pressed in a different mold and painted a different color and sprayed with a different flavor. They could make it out of broccoli and have it taste exactly the same and be eep times healthier but they don’t because people have some kind of weird pride about eating meat, even when it’s several stages removed and reformulated several times. One of the claims made to discredit Mr. Obama when he sought presidential space was that he ate arugula. Hey, he eats VEGETABLES. He CAN’T be American. Do you remember the big “story” that taco bell’s meat didn’t meat ah the legal meat requirement? Nobody cared to observe that the substitution was actually vegetable matter which we’d be better off replacing the entire contents with. They only wanted to say “ha ha, unnatural! Oh ho ho, fast food! Tee hee, verbs! OMG coffee”
Yet Kentucky Why Chicken famously mistreats and misprepares real animals and the end product is not any more holy. The only identifiable difference is that a piece of chicken costs twice as much as a taco, and they don’t even take the bones out for you.
I saw that written bit partway through my own writing. Although it does suggest the McRibs only exist at all because at one point in time McNuggets indeed were not present, which made me alter my own base remark, the coward, that has never been the case since. The article also does not suggest that the sole reason for the product’s absences is McDonalds’ self-assurance that it can get massive free publicity merely making the slightest deviation from routine, and that “McRib” is perfect for that by having a stupidly memorable name, so it can become something like a running gag. ANY product could be randomly removed, or not removed at all but suddenly said to have been unremoved, but it’s funnier and more consistent/efficient if the same one gets the moot every time. So the breach of routine itself has become routine!
Ha ha! I’ve figured it out! But what will happen to me now?
Ah, truly? I must say I hadn’t expected this!
Oh fah uhl I figured you wouldn’t tell me!
Rod Blagojevich knows where’s the party at. No doubt he will be funding it with his Jeopardy winnings. I expect only highest quality and plentiful part-like fare.
Awwwwwwwwwwwnawwwwwwwwwwwwww… I don’t even remember why he’s going to jail next month so it’s probably this.
Have you wondered what I have been up to lately that has consumed so much of my time? No? Good, because it isn’t this.
What does non-historical, non-Italian, possibly Hawaiian monarch King Arthur know about pizzas? You’d be surprised how little. For one thing he evidently cannot name a single meat. He seems to have heard reports of Pepperoni but is not confident enough that it’s real to put it in full size print. There was more consensus in his time on the existence of Wombo, a horrific beast that menaced the countryside by giving birth at inopportune times. The menu, alas, stops short of specifying which byproduct of this ends up on the pizza.
I wonder what the king is doing tonight. Not pondering the culinary arts, that much is certain.
The pizza wasn’t bad, but it seemed a bit like a frozen pizza that somebody had heated up. I could have done it in my own home if I wasn’t on a totally ill-advised trip to California that I thankfully only regret based on my primary reason for going, which had eerily little to do with this pizza and that ultimately mattered less than it could have. I never forget a pizza, though. Yet I was nicely received by the folks whose home this occurred in, and I can’t remember if they insisted on paying for the pizza or not, so I’ll just say they did and that it was very kind of them, especially considering that I overestimated my ability to consume foreign pizzas in single attempts and left the remains for them to ponder. With that in mind I decline to comment on their bottled pancakes at this time.
Congratulations, you’ve equated the name of your company and all the products it makes with excrement. Blessed excrement, perhaps but still nothing that I want to take a bite out of.
These don’t have meat in them at all and don’t even look like conventional wing-shaped meat pieces, yet avoided having their vowel revoked.
It makes sense that they would team up: cookies get a formidable ally to protect them from horrifying anthropomorph insect aliens who fire head-sized phlegm projectiles and pizza gets something it can spell properly. It’s wyn-wyn.
Everybody’s so irritable! I swear that I am working on many things. Some of them are even trivial enough to be pertinent to this website.
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december 25:
Aw naw, I forgot we were doing Christmitz again this year.
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All I want to do is eat, all day.
Healthy Way snacks! A healthy way is a good way to eat all day.
However, if you’re selling Jerky, Pringles and COMBOS you should NOT be allowed to use this logo.
The last time I bought combos was, according to my notes, January 2007. I have forgotten how I determined this. I’ve been putting off this dumb story for three years.
I purchased the COMBOS at a Walgreens. It was a mistake, but most of my Walgreens purchases are, and looking over the receipt afterward did lead me to a startling revelation: the Combos were actually on sale and I paid half as much as I thought I had, and most of the price had been the M&Ms I also purchased. But also, some items listed on the receipt were followed by an asterisk. I looked further down and redeemed the asterisk for knowledge that these items may be purchased with food stamps. Food stamps may be paid toward the purchase of COMBOS. Do not buy Combos with your food stamps. Food stamps are for food. Combos are not food. They are scarcely a snack. They are a science experiment. Considering that they already imply meat with the pepperoni pizza flavor, it would not be out of turn for Combose to develop a laboratory animal flavor.
I meant to scan the receipt and show it, but I didn’t, and then two weeks later I was getting mad at all the paper on my “desk” and that one especially bothered me because I could think of no reason why I had kept it, long since having consumed any mistakes I may have hoped to get petty refunds for. These are my struggles.
And then three months later, Friday, May foist, also 2007, also specifically documented, I found out that I qualified for food stamps. For some reason I was ashamed, even though they do make America stronger and white supremacy sites direct link to images I can change into pictures of Olmec and posterior-wiping cartoon frogs. I was ashamed, but then I realized I could buy soup. Anyway, time to get me some combos.
The strange power of combos is that as soon as you admit you eat them you feel really bad. Not as bad as you physically feel immediately after eating them, thankfully.
This NEVER happened. Not even ONE TIME. Was anybody fooled by this shot of a knife supposedly spreading the filling over, and somehow into the pretzeline tube? Even if that was physically possible they’d still make a robot do it. You’re more likely to find actual apple-based content in a box of Apple Jacks. You’d be more likely to find a jack in there. I used to like combos a lot when I was 11ish or so, but even then I couldn’t eat the default “cheddar” flavor. Something was never quite right there.
Combos do more harm than good. Consuming them has degenerated my motor skills to the extent that this is the best pertinent Street Fighter 2 screenshot I can stage even while controlling both players.
This one doesn’t count because it’s from one of the numerous forgotten early 1990s Street Fighter 2 spinoffs Capcom made to get out of having to make a definitive “3” in the series, Street Fighter II: Championship Obstetrician.
I’m not good at this game, either.
If I get cancer for this class from using spray paint I had better be given at LEAST a b- out of it.
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Friday, October 8: I bought a glue gun today. I did not, however, update this website.
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Don’t eat this enigmatic cholesterol lump because somebody dared you to.
I will probably eat a KFC double-down before I die. I just don’t want it to be immediately before or why.
First of all, does anybody really clench their tongue out the side of their mouth like that? I never do that. I would know if I did. I know when a wet thing touches my epidermis.
Walter the hobo… I’m supposed to be afraid of this guy but I can’t when he does that.
More to the point, is it truly necessary for the two lower guys to hold up the bagel while the third one cuts it? They are endangering the cutter, and endangering themselves by being so near the path of the blade. Apart from creating unsafe work conditions and unnecessary liability, they are themselves unnecessary and should be fired immediately. The cutter should also be fired for walking on the food. All three should be required to take a neckerchief management class. Fire the bagel, too; they’re boring. The knife may stay. I approve of its stripes.
But nobody ever listens to me, does they? Last year I repeatedly reiterated my belief that every one of them should also be fired immediately, yet here they are again. In fact they are even more numerous than before. That less is going wrong does not change that just as much is going right.
The mouse creature, curiously about one fourth the size of the squirrel creature (the one in the grid-pattern jacket. YES that’s supposed to resemble a squirrel GOSH), was initially sitting on a conveniently placed curb-edge from the reference picture found online which I started with, but when I actually visited the place I saw that there was no curb at all, just a brief slope. Thus, a banana.
And who’s this? This is the character that I had to remove from the picture to preserve balance. You can see how well that worked out. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was wearing, anyhow. I could have switched him with the tall kid, but that kid was at least tall, whereas this one is about the same size as the dopey tail-ed miscreants.
I hear the actual 5000 event occurred while I was safely out of the country a few weeks ago in August. However, when I initially created this image, I faced the fears and apprehensions of those who initially misread the lettering to believe that DOPE IS COMING. Permit me to emphasize:NO dOPES ARE COMING AND NO dOPES HAVE COME. That needed to be said. I had nothing to do with that.
This makes me think that I should devote a page to all the times other people have drawn stupid things like dopes and dope sympathizers. Not because I think you care, but just so I don’t forget. It’s happened a few times by now and I’m starting to worry.
In other nopes I was forbidden to take pictures of this building, even to use as guide for a picture intended to represent a charity for patients at this very hospital. And so I stopped taking them.
In the event you are curious, the charity is to raise money to help the patients get treatment, not to give them cancer.
We’re trying to run a business, after all.
Wednesday August 11:
Hello. Are you still there? I’m still not!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^carrots
Monday August 9:
I complain about lawn mowers a lot. I really can’t stand them. Every week, May to November, lawn mowers mowing lawns. There must be something we can do about this.
I appreciate them trying to address my issue, but I cannot approve of making a public spectacle of clown mowing. It seems rude. Nobody chooses to be a clown, after all.
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Friday, August 6:
Hello. Evidently I will be going away for a week. No, not necessarily to jail, and you probably won’t notice.
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eep
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WOW, you mean to tell me I can get all the channels that everybody gets for free for less than 20 dollars a month?!?!?
There’s probably more to this package than local affiliates, but Comcast ought to at least hint at that. I hate to think, as much as I know it is true, that it is more than sufficient to market your product exclusively at idiots to make good profits.
This is like Sirius satellite radio offering a “lite” option that allows me to pick up fm stations.
I remember when I passed through the New York City, back in Mayish, witnessing a billboard for a radio station proclaiming “COMMERCIAL FREE MONDAYS!”
WOW! I get to not hear ads or songs I hate EVER by not listening to FM radio! People have been buying personal music playing objects for nearly thirty years now and presumably collecting musical recordings to go along with that. Nobody who owns an ipod has any excuse to complain about commercial breaks on radio stations. You paid all that money for the blasted thing, so use it. “Commercial free” may not even be true. A company can sponsor a block of noise and just have said periodically “the drive at five is brought to you by BURGER KING.”
On that note, I think there is great potential in the field of fast food heads of state and positions of authority.*
Chicken Chancellor
Milkshake Shiekh
Hotdog Dowager
Pizza Princess
Castro Bistro
Burrito Baron
French Fry Pharaoh
Tater Dictator
Beef Caliph
Pancake Pope
Lady Nuggets
Teriyaki Triumvirate
Taco Taliban
Rib Hitler
Pork Warlord
Kupcake Kaiser
Cinnamon Roll Ayatollah
Gang of Four Hoagies and More
Now I’m hungry.
Now I’m not.
*List separated with colors to make it easier to read and because I didn’t realize how awful it looked until I’d already inserted 50 little font codes, not because ten years ago I built a time machine.
Hello. Today is Thursday. I am at a Hotel. I have internet and I have my computer, but not at the same time.
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another week so soon? I am making an attempt to update this for wednesday, so you can likely guess how that will go.
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Join me as I pause and pay homage to our fallen friend, master meatsmith and former muppet sympathizer, Jimmy Dean. Our breakfast bowls become breakfast bawls.
What do you… I said DEAN. Beans are still around.
Dean, best known to members of my supposed generation for his inadvertent mention in Ma Donna’s 1990 song Vogue, which actually referred to actor James Dean, will probably continue to be known for that anyhow.
These sausages escaped from their enclosure to begin the long hard pilgrimage to
the internet so they could look at the official Jimmy Dean Brand website, only to find it either unaware or unconcerned that its namesake is dead, because he was actually pushed out of his spokesing duties which were his last personal ties to the company six years ago, ostensibly for being too old.
This guy exudes youthful appeal, though. He’s like the Nabisco Snack Fairy without the dignity or product with the nutritional credibility of Oreo Cakesters.
He’s such hot stuff that the website’s temperature management department is overworked and has to pay visitors to take up the palm frond-waving for a minute or two. Which sounds ridiculous but it’s slightly more plausible than bribing people such a pitiful amount to pretend to be your devoted follower on the internet. Not plausible at all: paying somebody to design a costume that’s not deliberately lazy-looking. The only thing more appealing than low budget ingenuity is high budget low budget imitation. Much time and effort was devoted to making this look like so little time and effort was involved.
Appearing in the notorious MC Rove sketch was Colin Mochrie’s penance for this. Or maybe it was for those weird flash cartoons. Or maybe I’m the only person who doesn’t find instant emasculatory hilarity in frumpy men wearing pink skirts and so need not waste effort complaining about an obsolete advertisement series which I don’t actually think about all that much nor bear lasting resentment toward the actor for appearing in. I will say that nobody frolics into my mind as having the potential to be less intolerable in this role than this person. He surely did me a favor by not letting Greg Proops or French Stewart get the job.
For all new customers know, “Jimmy Dean” is the name of the product itself and/or the source of its meat, and given Mr. Dean’s current physical state that would almost be plausible if not for the general absence of legitimate meat matter in most frozen food. Consider that the Breakfast Bowl(s) is apparently ripping off a Kentucky Fried Chicken gimmick, –right down to the forced pluralization in the product name– a thing noted for its perceived* low quality, and also that ripoffs typically are less meritorious than that which they ripped, and that 90+ percent of the people who buy this will opt to heat it in a microwave oven without so much as considering less sog-like alternatives. I already considered it so I figured I’d inflict that thought upon you as well. For Krimpet’s sake it’s a plastic bowl in a box. Plastic bowls are for takeout food, maybe for putting chips in at a barbecue. I’m expected to provide my own fork, right? The one on the box is clearly made of a shiny metal. If I’m eating in my house I have real bowls I can use, too.
*granted, all these perceptions are my own and they are as close as I have come to actually eating the things I am talking so much bowl-filler about. The thing I’m using to support my unverified claim is just another unverified claim of mine. I additionally ought to disclose that I am fairly fond of Stouffer’s stuffed peppers, which also come in a sealed plastic bowl in a box in a freezer. However, the bowl is not given top billing.
And this! Hello again. If ‘the morning fade’ was a real thing that you didn’t make up, you wouldn’t have been able to trade-mark it, O Deanco. It sounds more like a mysterious ultimate villainous entity or invading force from some bad fantasy movie, particularly when you order me to fight it with a special enchanted apparatus named after a former legendary hero. Snack Fairy Sun Pixie only you can take up the Sausage of Jimmy Dean and venture forth through the lands of Hangover to do battle with The Morning Fade!
Why eat right when there are so many other directions to choose from?
February 23: first loud, distracting power tools of the season! There’s still snow on the ground and I can’t walk outside without my coat, but if the calendar says spring it’s time to start making shrill noises that have no end.
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Well, now you know why I’ve been so slow to update this site.
Also, I acknowledge in advance that a lot of this is generalizations and assumptions. The fact that I’m writing at length about frozen pizzas should tell you that I am a less than cultured individual.
What we have here is a deceased German medical doctor trying to sell an Italian product to Americans. It would be like if Yakov Smirnov started selling Yorkshire pudding to Indonesians. And you can say “uh actually Yakov Smirnov is still alive.” First of all, watch the attitude. Second, truly?
Then why, recently, on the television program 30 Rock[efeller Center], a show fond of pointless, improbable cameos, when it came time to cast in a brief role a bearded Europy-looking guy named Yakov with a funny accent who appeared to be in his 50s, did they choose… someone else? I checked his name in the credits but neglected to make a note of who it was. Whoopth. I am a student of counterfeit Yakovs, but hardly an authority. I wish my name was Yakov.
As long as I’m buying a pizza from a German doctor born in the 19th century, I might as well buy it from a German World War I fighter pilot with a historically inaccurate mustache.
So many decisions to make! Incidootily, I used to eat Red Baron pizzas, specifically the “deep dish” variety, all the times, until my mother stopped buying them because they cost the same as bigger frozen pizzas. When I finally had one again, I didn’t like it because I reminded me of the “pizzas” sold at the Saint Vincent de Paul school cafeteria I had eaten within a few times. The same size, the same weird cheese that will come off in one piece if you bite it the wrong way, the same bright red weird sauce, and most importantly, the same weird crust that when you bite into it appears to be comprised not of a crispy mass of expanded dough, but several flimsy white layers of a thing I cannot describe. I had somehow developed a revulsion to the sight of those layers and had difficulty finishing. Only my trusty red pepperoni cubes, the one aspect the school version lacked, kept me going. I would eat those, but not actual pepperoni disc slices. It has today been revealed to me by the internet that the Red Baron pizza brand indeed got its start as a school supplier, and only became called that when somehow the things were popular enough to justify supermarket expansion, at which point, compared to “Schwan’s School Cafeteria Pizza-like-object,” calling it Red Baron made an adequate quantity of sense. Kids will eat ANYTHING if you say it’s pizza, though. I thought I was more mature and wiser, but I wasn’t, because I then reverted to my interim Jeno’s brand pizzas, which had the exact same cheese, tomato sauce and cubes. The only difference in the actual product was the absence of the creepy layer-things. The bread-product itself wasn’t of any higher quality, it was just narrower, so that I couldn’t see how it was constructed. So easily I was taken in once more! I tell you, these things’ll be the death of myself.
I’ll show them: I’ll have my body cremated. My initial plan was to have my body fed to dogs, but after a lifetime of eating frozen pizzas, particularly one ended by that, I don’t think I’ll be very nutritious.
Back to my first non-point, the problem is that “Italy” is a stereotype. The populace at large assumes –or is assumed by advertisers to assume– that Italy is still lost in the 17th century renaissance and all food is prepared for days at a time by old ladies mixing tomatoes and garlic and that green stuff in pots and such while children chase chickens through the streets which no cars drive over constantly. In fact, Italy today is fundamentally indistinguishable from any other post-industrial nation. There are paved roads, security cameras, giant buildings and McDonalds’. The number one frozen pizza title means as much there as it does here, where I am told the leader, by a huge margin is DiGiorno, despite depicting its customers as naive oafs who can’t tell the taste of a frozen pizza from a real pizza.
The sort of person lazy and devolved enough to buy a pizza from a specially programmed remote control button, with devolved taste-buds to match. The Pillsbury people claim Totino* pizzas and not DiGiorno are the highest selling, so clearly this is a thing that anybody can claim. However, Totino’s, despite having the power to taste like both a cheeseburger and a taco, never claims to taste like a pizza and in any event does not have special deals with the satellite company, so I will not be buying their product.
As to what’s being ORDERED here, obviously you’re not ordering the pizza to be delivered to you off of the television. “It’s not delivery,” after all, and if it was you could do much better. No, you merely press select to ORDER your WOMAN to bring you your FROZEN PIZZA on a FROZEN PIZZA-SIZED WOODEN PLATTER, because YOU like PIZZA and BURGERS. You know, MAN FOOD. The signal goes through the tv to your lady’s punishment helmet, administering shocks until she gets up and does her domestic duty.
WLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! Eat that pizza! Eat it! Eat it while I scream at you from your home torture chamber! Sure, don’t even look! You didn’t have the torture chamber built right next to your kitchen with a convenient view window because you wanted to make eye contact with your victims, did you? You are the master of all: your television, your domestic propertner, your hostages. If you eat lousy pizza, it is because you CHOOSE to.
Anyway
No doubt there are classical cities in Italy that have managed to retain or restore their old timey touristy appeal but… just imagine if everybody there imagined us Americonians all lived in Colonial Williamsburg and ate beans and grits every day. That’s what it would be like. And then we walk 2000 miles to Texas and hang around in saloons comparing mustaches.
Why would this fictional, frozen in time, Brigadoon-esque Italy give any dignity to the idea of frozen in grime pizza at all, much less rank them? Do we even have any idea what is considered good pizza in Italy? Do they ever EAT pizza in Italy? Does it bear any resemblance to the sort of pizza we eat here? Specifically, the sort we eat but that isn’t pictured in this site entry?
What is the quintessential “American” food? A hamburger? The number one selling hamburger almost certainly comes from a major chain, and even people who eat them will often gripe about the quality. According to a vague memory of mine I cannot substantiate the validity of, 7-11 sells more hot dogs than anywhere else. I’ve never even been IN a 7-11, much less associated the thought of the place with my occasional hunger for weird sausage with weird bread.
Hey, you, idiot off to the right: stop lifting that one slice out of the pizza before we take the picture! I don’t give a
pucky o’hare if somebody already cut around that one slice but not the rest of the pizza. Leave it alone!
But yes, Dr. Oetker pizza seen alongside another thing that should not exist: Mystic Pizza, precooked, frozen and mass produced.
Really? I think rather the movie made the pizza famous. Nobody would care, otherwise. This is not outstanding pizza. It just happened to come from a joint in a town that somebody thought would make a good setting for a forgettable romantic comedy. It could also be that I go into these places looking for my deluded idea of an Italian pizza when the people specialize in the Greek style. What they should say is “warning! we do not make Italian pizzas well!” but they don’t and present all the standard tomater sars/mozzarillo cheese options, knowing full well they cannot be trusted.
I’d like to go to Italy and eat some pasta, because I don’t like the store bought product so much, unless it has meatballs with it. Real Chinese food, however, does not need to come into my life.
As you may have figured, I will not, at this time, be ordering a Dr. Oetker pizza, Italy’s number one frozen pizza. Who eats frozen pizza while in Italy? The immigrants, evidently. And I would be if I went there, but I haven’t gone yet!
Oetker. With a name like that he should be selling snake oil or fighting Spiderm-An. True enough, more than a few supposedly competing American frozen pizzas are actually produced by the SCHWAN food company, including the famous baron (as well as Tony, who I am afraid searching for media relevant to will prolong this entry beyond a reasonable length), so perhaps I should praise the doctor for his honesty. But I won’t, because he says “ristorante” when babelfish assures me he means “Gaststätte” and an actual German speaker who left a comment on this entry tells me he just means plain old “restaurant.” Additionally, I recently started buying pizzas by Palermo, who assure me they aren’t owned by any of those other crumbumpanies. They make pizza and nothing else.
*Totino’s and Jeno’s are both Pilsbury brands that produce nearly identical products but go to different stores, a fairly common occurrence. However, they are both purported to be named after actual people, so it seems reasonable to assume one resented the other.
Yes, I actually did it. I screwed your brains out I bought the 30 ounce JAR of Utz snack mix. I know it says “party” mix, but I don’t go to parties, and when I do there’s never stuff like this there. This is what I stay home and eat while other people have parties. This is my meth. That may not even be so far from the truth; Judging by the way it is sealed, this stuff is apparently prescription strength. Although the side label professes the presence of 30 servings, one per ounce, I reckon I can have this finished in under a week. Hopefully I won’t have to. I will give it my list of demands in short time.
Officially, it is a “barrel,” but anybody who’s played enough video games knows that barrels often contain life sustaining, fully cooked, nonrotting foodstuffs (occasionally on plates), and while edible, what I have is not quite food. Beside that, suggesting that I can eat the entire contents of a BARREL makes me seem like a fat glutton. My metabolism is too fast for that. I am a moderately skinny glutton. I have a physical appearance accurately described as “salvageable.” Come back when I’m thirty [years old]… If I’m still there, eating utz party mix alone, stop me.
Donkey Kong would not throw Utz Party Mix at Mario. Monkey Donkey would not… no, actually we could be on to something. It is a shame that the only web page documenting this phemonemonemon is over ten years old. Clearly it is a relevant, pressing, depressing issue.
Look at that, just while I was here talking to you. I would weigh the remnants, but my scale is broken. No, not because I stood on it, narf narf. I was merely incidentally mentioning that I own a scale which does not function. Why don’t I throw it away? Why don’t you throw it away? Am I on trial here? Fleeps, lemmelone!
This jarrel, though very orange inside, does not contain cheeseballs. Tell us about the cheeseballs, Utzy.
I reckon you’ll pay more attention to the weather once acid rain starts pouring out of those bright orange clouds.
Those are not the famous Planters Cheez Balls… I know Planters’ are famous because one person uploaded this picture to the flickr and google images turned up the exact same picture of the same obsolete package design with the same sickly, faded colors and the same dented paper on numerous sites that had ripped it off, sometimes with site logos and bonus jpeg artifacts, most not bothering to have searched the “all sizes” link and just went with the 280×500 pixel preview. Somebody had even re-uploaded the smaller one to a different flickr page (to make it even flickier). To distinguish my own ripoff from the others I will put it through a really stupid series of filters that I have never once used seriously in a decade of owning Paint Shop Pro 6.
The only way to make this classier would be to scroll the text.
But that is not important. What is important, to me, about Cheez Balls, is that they have Mr. Peanut pictured on the cans. MR. PEANUT CONTAINS NO CHEESE. Neither do cheez balls, but MR. PEANUT ALSO CONTAINS NO CHEEZ. Mr. Peanut is not qualified to act as spokesman for any cheez product, balls or otherwise.
I could make a childish remark about how the most common cheez incarnations are the ball and the doodle, but I wouldn’t be able to commit to it and would present it as a shameful yet courageously suppressed inclination and pretend it was your fault instead. You should work on that.
Cheez is also frequently seen in the form of the -it, about which the less said, the usual.
According to legend, the planters phased out Cheez Balls because they didn’t sell anymore they were unhealthy. You don’t get into the snack business is to sell people cheap to manufacture trash which they don’t need to be eating. Because you’re a nitwit with no head for business matters. But I tell you, there are worse things in this world than cheez.
I give you chiz. And you’re welcome.
Some people, as in: more than one, talking about cheez balls on the internet, say the balls were discontinued in 2006. Suddenly! A page from 2008 documents a person finding them in a store! Great piggly wiggly! But, you know, they’re CANNED. And the cans are sealed. Those things are probably from 1998. There’s a reason people fill their bomb shelters with cans apart from being lunatics. Even if the balls are NOT fresh you’ll never know because those things will make you sick under any circumstances. Not that one needs the help with this visual accompaniment. I can tell you that if there IS a nuclear war… and the only things in your shelter are cheez balls… then you probably caused the war by hoarding them! I can’t believe you sometimes!
I was going to write something today about how all cereal mascots appear to be screaming, but I made sure to check if anybody else had, first. As things do sometimes turn out, somebody has, and only a bit over a month ago. This is not surprising; surely the level of maniacalness (“mania” itself is not a maniacal enough word, I’m afraid) that led me to suddenly realize this would do the same thing to others. The fact that I don’t purchase these cereals and have less than scant desire to, yet still noticed the overpowering craziness of their superfluous, excessively-shaded representatives must be a sign of something that I would be failing in my duties to not attempt to draw yet more attention to, even if the observation is not totally original.
Oh, Captain! This time he’s selling a product so shoddily produced and stale that no one less than Superman can break it apart.
I say “this time,” for Captain Crunch’s mental slide is nothing new. I have been documenting it for years, and have sadly become accustomed to it. However, I still ought to have paid more attention to the effect he was having on his shelf/ship-mates.
“Wendell,” the Cinnamon Toast Crunch chef is so out of control that his picture on the box actually had to be reduced in size to keep it from giving people heart attacks. This is not surprising; his guilt over murdering the other two chefs in the early 1990s, dropping them into the swirl-mixer vat and subsequently feeding the evidence to America can only have grown since then. Unlike himself; he seems shorter and more deformed than ever. He’s actually glowing from the quantities of artificial joy he has to inject merely to keep from sobbing.
Yes, yes, certainly, with online vagrants’ tendency to talk about trash from two decades ago forever and gravitate toward the most obvious, sociopathic and vulgar explanations for everything, I assume claiming “Wendel killed the other chefs” is nothing any more original* than noticing the perpetually gaping mouth spaces common to cereal box characters. I wouldn’t be surprised to find an old page of my own accusing such a thing. But maybe it’s so common because it’s true.
*Or it is, but only because I didn’t feel inclined to put a mention of rape in there. Everybody on the internet knows rape is hilarious!
The famous Trix rabbit pulled some strings, possibly the ones that hold up his eyebrows, and got two different demented expressions on shelves at the same time. He STILL can’t get the cereal he is forever in the proximity of enormous bowls of, and that would push anybody over the edge. Fifty years against a garish red background doesn’t help, either, as his neighbor would no doubt attest were he in a mental condition to do so.
The leprechaun looks like he’s attacking somebody with that giant, irresponsibly over-perspectiv’d spoon. It’s more like a catapult scoop than something a human would eat out of, much less a mythical demi-human a fraction of one’s size. And once again there is glowing with absence of apparent, appropriate light source. In this case it is not a result of stimulants from anything but that which is in the cereal. The marshmallows are now so toxic and explosive that they must be handled from a distance. I do believe Lucky is experiencing a recoil from… shooting it, I guess. Speaking of shooting, I suspect we are not incredibly far off from needing to put heroin into this stuff to keep kids as interested as our profit forecasts and/or psycho spokesmen require.
More red, more threatening loaded spoon attacks. The name of the cereal is even violent. The violence is indiscriminate, too, as the unfortunate positioning of that frog’s eyes combined with the direction its pupil-like-things are pointing in cannot possibly present any vision to the frog-like-creature but its own nose. At least look at me when you smack me, you brute! And… I don’t know what magical “IMMUNITY” Cocoa Rispies is supposed to grant me, but I doubt it’s immunity from the sight of its keepers’ cackling countenances.
I didn’t eat break-fast cereal at all for much of my life. It is only within the past few months that I resumed, and I only eat corn flakes and cheerios, the same things I used to. Even Corn Pops are too sweet for me. Don’t pop my flakes! There’s no sense to consuming that much sugar if it only makes me want to cover the stuff in salt. All the same, I’m sure the artificial nutritive value that gets pumped into these mystery morsels is better than none at all, as a look at the boxes for an equally sweet substance without it suggests:
THESE guys aren’t even happy. They’re ANGRY. They want me DEAD. It’s not enough that I kill myself by pouring coke into myself by the caseload. These fellows need results.
Toucan Sam tm is not quite evil yet, but with that red back there he eventually will be, and until then, as long as he has those GOLD LOOPS he doesn’t have to be. What fruit are those frightful sparklethings supposed to represent? Liberace?
This makes me feel like Count Chocula wants to eat ME. Or my blood. My chocolatey, chocolatey blood. This doesn’t even show the cereal. For all I know each box contains an actual miniature Count Chocola which will create untold chaos when released. Or worse, just his head. And Boo Berry? Why is that here at all? The only place I’ve ever seen Boo Berry mentioned is on “bring back boo berry!” online petitions. I guess it is good that people’s dedicated laziness is not always in vain and can actually get results, but is it fair to burden every shopper with the sight of this result?
Oh, and there on the left… Gosh, kids just aren’t excited about eating chocolate chip cookies for breakfast anymore! What now? RAINBOW SPRINKLES? That’s so crazy, it just might work. If it doesn’t, heroin.
This business philosophy is KILLING our children! The Crunch-o-Thon may welcome me, but it would be morally unconscionable for me to reciprocate. The very thought of encouraging children to engage in such activities so soon after gulping down so much dubious corn product, and with so many razor-edged crunch bits still fresh in their stomachs… oh! If I didn’t know of his cerebral breakdown, I would be sure the Captain was doing this on purpose. Oh, what a chilling thought! What if this was all…
an act?
Forget O-6 pay grade. The Captain has promoted himself to O-G.
Watchmen on DVD, featuring an additional 24 hours of never-before-seen footage! When I watched those men in a theater, indeed my greatest complaint was that the film had used its time too efficiently. We need to pad this out, yo.
I like this new “wheelchair access” symbol. It has action lines. Much like Wheelchair Mario, it really emphasizes handi-CAPABLE. It also communicates “look here, sonny. I have to use my ARMS to move these WHEELS, and THAT’S why I can’t open the door.” Although the old one looks like it wants to punch somebody, I don’t reckon it would be a very effective punch from that starting position.
I don’t know why people complain about their Department(s) of Motor Vehicles. The floating, misshapen smiley face in the corner puts me completely at ease and cures all my worries. Although I do begin to think perhaps that is a character flaw of mine.
Which is not to say my sense of alarm has dulled to a sirloin tip:
Maybe I’ve been on the internet too long, but I find something intensely upsetting about somebody having brown fluid dripped on itself and also being jaw-detachingly ecstatic about that happening, and then this getting the unconcerned, “inoffensive” label “muddy.”
Oh.
Ohhh… Wikihow.
I didn’t realize what site I was at.
I just realized I had an earlier draft of the text of the entry following this one typed into this entry for a whole day. Now the whole world* knows I had thought of “chubby uncle” before “wacky college roommate,” before I realized the guy wasn’t very chubby and didn’t look all that much older than the young Spock. Think of all the ad revenue I lost!
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Apparently Reese’s peanut butter candy bar is made with Reese’s peanut butter. You don’t want to know what the chocolate is made with. Because you don’t care.
I once attended a school in which Reese’s peanut butter cups were a common trinket of value used to motivate students, so to prepare them for the cigarette barter systems common at many of their potential future places of residence, and a single unit was always referred to as “a ree-seez.” That made me mad. Now that reese does indeed produce a product with no name, it still makes me mad because those crum bums were saying his name wrong. It is Reese, not Reesy! They also pronounced scythe as “skeeth.”
The question is: Am I worthy? This slogan was no accident; it’s printed on the unnecessary plastic bag the bucket had been placed within, also. Now, then, while I certainly would not eat something which had been declared unfit to occupy a bucket, I likewise am not filled with anticipation at the idea of food designated as just right for a bucket, a hop, skip and a gump away from food unfit to fill anything else.
Jack Links: the only raw chicken that’s convenience store room temperature plastic bag-worthy. When did this stuff get to Connecticut? I know in The South people are more in touch with their meat. They are open to the idea that these are parts from dead animals that are only dead because people killed them to eat them. That’s part of the fun for them. In the north-east, though, it’s all about deluding one’s self. Some people have convinced themselves that lobsters don’t feel pain (that is a seven page pdf article. Just so you know). They have convinced themselves, in fact, that fish isn’t meat at all. But there’s no denying what’s in this bag is a cause of suffering. Why not have it be yours? As to whether it’s actual “meat,” if it isn’t, that’s only a result of legal shenanigans, something like “oh, this contains greater than 30% beak and feather per gram, so THEREFORE…”. If you were to attempt to pass off something with no animal flesh in it as meat, if you were in the business of deception, wouldn’t you try harder than this to make it look palatable? This is an honest product. I think the point of taking a picture of the back of this, rather than the front, which bears merely a marketing approved photograph of what this stuff is supposed to look like, only at the rear do you get a hint of its true nature. This may also be the case if you have already eaten it. However, this picture didn’t come out particularly well so you can’t see the indistinct dark brown/black bits which float about unrestrained and affix themselves to the edges of the container. So thank me. A responsible web-log-keeper would have purchased the item, consumed it and documented the experience for the sake of journalism. However, I’m no journalist and I reserve the right to delude myself that this is something other than what is popularly, unfortunately, regarded as a “blog.” I’m not going to spend my own money on something weird just because
Oh dear. I’m almost out of toilet paper.
People are fatter than ever, people have less money than recent evers. The solution?
Enormous, ten dollar bags of Reese Peanut Butter cups. (The Connecticut sales tax rate is six per-cent, which you’ll know adds another 59 cents to the 9.78 blurrily seen here if you’re better at maths than I am). Enhancing them in this way might be our only hope of stopping Terminator peanut butter cups from the future.
A counterpart quantity container for M&Ms, in addition to the old sizes still available. Because it was decided too much shelf space was going to competing brands at this Wal Mart.
Ooah. I have never seen an mnm bag that big before. That is atrocious. The only thing I like about this set up is that it makes the awful, awful M&M “characters” appear to be in jail.
Unfortunately, their relations with teeth, hair, occasional lips and mustaches are yet believed to be at large. That is assuming “large” is still adequate for their consumptive requirements.
ARRRRRRRGH TEETH
I felt dirty when I bought a “medium” bag back in December. But 42 ounces, that’s like eating a cat. A cat made of chocolate. True enough, after seeing this I proceeded to procure and purchase a 24-count box of Coky Cola cans, which it is not at this time my intention to share, but I don’t expect to drink them all before August. Somebody somewhere buys 42 oz of m&ms and eats 42 oz of m&ms in the same day (perhaps in Oz), and was getting worn out opening three or two bags.
Truly, ’tis a great time to be alive.