Saturday, September 30, 2006


"My X-Box 360 loves your tits. That is the only explanation I have for
why you're kicking my ass right now", Mr. Scoop exclaimed as he threw
his controller to the floor. "I need a cigarette."

We are in the process of finishing the front nine holes of the Pebble Beach section of Tiger WoodsPGA Tour '06 for X-Box 360.

I kicked his ass by getting two eagles on the front nine. He eventually eagled himself, which was good, you know, for me. Mr. Scoop felt less stabby then. What Mr. Scoop doesn't really realize is that video golf is like pool for me. When I'm drunk I do really stupid things. I'll fire off some shot that looks like it should go immediately into the brink. Or into a sand trap. Or a tree. Whatever. My ball finds its way into the hole like a frat boy looking for poon. The point is: I'm drunk and it looked like a good idea at the time. Mr. Officer. Sir.

The X-Box 360 controllers aren't being very helpful tonight. The battery packs aren't holding charges for some reason. The green lights go all spin-y around the silver "on" button on the controllers. The controllers, seemingly arbitrarily, decide that they are no longer connected. All the hardware is suspect, tonight, as far as Mr. Scoop is concerned. A poor connection is the difference between him winning and me telling him he needs to do a shot for every hole he ends up behind my ass. Clearly it's a tense situation.

So he's solving our tie by accepting a game invite from a third party.

Clearly, he fears me. As he should.

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Thursday, September 28, 2006

Panaceas and Placebos

So, despite my best efforts to be healthy I continue to be plagued by the plague this cold. Yesterday, I tried to take my daily walk to show my body who was boss and was rewarded for my efforts by not having the strength to make dinner by the time I got home. Today, it has taken enough of a toll on me that I decided to take a sick day after I had already gone into work. I was kind of hoping that once I got to work, I'd just stick it out and get through the day but today is no ordinary day. Today is Parent's Night and as much as I normally enjoy putting in a 15 hour day that ends with having to duck questions about whether junior is getting a failure warning (the answer, by the way, is if you're suspicious enough about his performance to even ask, then the answer is probably yes), today I would rather have bamboo splinters put under my fingernails than remain upright for long periods. On the upside, I get to miss the fun that is Parent's Night. On the downside, that's one less day I can use as a "Make My Own Snow Day" when the weather starts to get crappy. Maybe I will have acquired a new car by then, although for some reason I can't find the title to my car (such as it is). I think I'll have to call the DMV or something.

Or torch it.

Today was the generally drippy with accompanying aches and mild fever portion of the cold proceedings. I actually went so far as to buy these two herbal teas. One has zinc and echinacea (and knocked me right the hell out after a couple of cups) and the other has chamomile and valerian (which is actually supposed to knock you right the hell out, so who knows what that's going to do to me). As long as they ratchet my energy level down enough so I don't feel compelled to stay up for Letterman (not because he's really that good anymore, but more because I'm an adult and I can), I'll consider it money well spent.

I did feel better after my herb induced nap, so who knows? All I know is that OTC decongestants are good for making meth you high enough not to care that you're sick but lousy for actually sleeping through the night later, so this stuff is going to have to do for now. Now, if I could just get over the hump enough to get my sense of taste back, I might feel I've actually accomplished something today.

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Saturday, September 23, 2006

Awful Things You Can Pick Up For No Good Reason...


It's that time of the year, folks.

Cold season.

If you are a regular reader of the site, you'll remember that I was fighting a similar viral battle about this time last year.

So, I've been combatting the general symptoms this weekend the best way I know how: with copious amounts of alcohol. Because alcohol is a disinfectant.

And I apologize for my absence this week. I've been getting a lot of concerned emails from readers who are worried about my welfare. Perhaps I can't get to my computer because I'm trapped under something heavy. Fear not, gentle readers. I'm sick, not disabled.

Of course, I blame the diet for weakening my immune system. If I hadn't lost ten pounds, that's how much more fat the virus would have had to wade through before it tried to invade my system. Amazing how, when we try to be healthy, we're more likely to be laid low by evil irritants to the system like the common cold or frat boys in sports bars or...J├Ągermeister.

So, clearly, it's not my fault.

But, I'd like to take a moment to answer some reader mail that has come my way since my unintentional break.

Dear Scoop:

As a lover of all things plush, I was very disappointed by the contents of your site. After spending hours on the internet looking for the perfect picture of furry animal puppets to beat off to, I found one spectacular picture of a cluster of totally hot, skritchable animal friends - there's even a dog that is already enjoying a hand up its ass! But...everything else on the site suggests that you are less about furry love and more about drunken beat downs. What gives?

Best furry wishes,

Stripey Bouncable McTigerbuddy

Oh. Mr. McTigerbuddy.

I must admit, I'm not a fellow furry. But based on the sheer number of people on the web that come here looking for this picture:

'd think I was.

And, hey, enjoy yourself while you're here and, um, looking at it. Just please stop emailing me about it. I will start posting your emails.

Yes, I'm looking at you "DogStar Hero at gmail dot com".

Dear amandarama999,

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Choose any from the list or add your own:









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And you won't be asked to sacrifice blood
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Here's the link for the site. go there now:

The above is an advertisement sent by a DiscoverWitchcraft affiliate. If you
have any questions or concerns you may contact us at the following
address:Platinum Success, Inc. Zieglergasse 38/8, A-1070, Vienna, Austria

That's a sweet offer, guys. But it's a fairly well know fact that I sent Mr. Scoop's last girlfriend into an unexplained bout of Mononucleosis using a voodoo doll, pins, and a half finished glass of Mr. Scoop's favorite libation of Jack Daniels and cherry Jolt. I think I'm all set, witchcraft-wise. But I appreciate the offer.

And, finally:

Dear Scoop:

I'm a 22 year old single bi-curious female from Oklahoma. I think your writing is totally hot. You haven't posted all week and I long for your acid prose. I hope everything is ok. I know you have Mr. Scoop in your life but, have you ever thought about getting with a woman?


[name withheld to protect the, um, innocent-ish...]

Well, it's funny you should mention that, "Name Withheld". Generally, my sexual interests tend to run strictly to vanilla, hetero pursuits.

But, if I had to pick a woman that gets me hot, I guess I'd go with Morgan Webb from G4's X-Play. Not only is she totally smokin', she's got the coolest job on television: reviewing video games. For, like, pay. And a television credit. I'd like to get her alone. Then...

Let's just say I get a job at G4 out of it. And godhood.

Hey, you may scoff, but - if she doesn't show up at work the next day at G4...there's a job opening...

I used to quietly, closetedly, lust after Gwen Stefani and Angelina Jolie, but since they've become mothers, the shine is off them. Let's just say that that children fuck everything up. Sure, those titties are big, but that woman is on a feeding schedule that doesn't include me.

I don't have this problem with guys. Particularly, Mr. Scoop.

Mr. Scoop believes that children are at their best seen (dancing at the end of a Tazer) and not heard (it cuts into his drinking time).

So, there you have it. I appreciate the mail. I'm working on getting better. By the grace of Jack Daniels, I'll be healed by Monday.

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Thursday, September 14, 2006

Chile Head

I gave myself a whanging chemical burn on my hands this evening cutting up what seemed to be a fairly innocuous couple of Anaheim chile peppers. They're supposed to be some of the milder chiles and I don't tend to wear gloves unless I'm working with habaneros.

The Anaheim is the long green one that's sort of in the middle in the picture.

It's not the first time I've abused my hands by misjudging the level of capsaicin in what was supposed to be a mild chile. A couple of overly keyed up poblanos also burned my fingers (and a couple of other tender parts before I realized what was happening) while I was in pursuit of peperonata greatness (which means making the recipe in the link, but using hot peppers for some or all of the bell peppers).

But, a love of chile peppers generally tends to imply a certain willingness to engage in self abuse. How else then could one achieve the adrenaline jacked high that the burn of the chile leaves you with as your body releases endorphins to counteract the pain that you've inflicted on yourself on purpose? Redness, burning and generally inflamed skin after chile preperation is acceptable collateral damage.

I've added more serranos than were absolutely neccessary to my recipe for guacamole and thrown handfuls of tiny, mouth numbing Thai bird peppers into a weekday evening stirfry. I've even infused habaneros into simple syrup to pour over sorbet for dessert. Cayenne pepper in my hot chocolate? Done that. If I can find an excuse to work a chile pepper into a recipe, I will. The more the better. The greater the burn, the bigger the high. Peel me off the damn ceiling.

No. I don't have an addictive personality. Why do you ask?

Speaking of which, the dry work week continues. T minus 21 hours and counting until booze o' clock!

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Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Eating Out - The Quinto Quarto

I know that Mario Batali is down with that which Italians call the love of quinto quarto. Organ meat. The meat that is often considered undesirable. He really enjoys it - as he puts it on his website for his restarant Babbo, it's "the love for all of the unmentionable parts...each bite is a religious experience..."

This love for getting into the unmentionable parts of undesired meat is the only reason I can think of that Batali would fuck Courtney Love.

Per the New York Daily News:

Celebrity chef Mario Batali has been enjoying la dolce vita this summer, with late-night drinking sessions at the Spotted Pig. During one recent bacchanal, which lasted almost until sunrise, the red-headed restaurateur told his companions he was leaving to "drop in on Courtney Love."

"He said that he 'often' drops in on her," said our man with the big ears.

Courtney Love? Why? Why would you do that to your dick? What did it do to you that you want to punish it that way? There are a lot of other things you could do to yourself that you'd regret less later. And any infections you might get from any of the activities in the pictures in the link, well, antibiotics will clear those up.

When Kurt Cobain slept with Courtney Love, he did most of the heavy lifting on her first album with Hole and then killed himself. Should we now expect a cookbook "written" by Love, followed by Batali falling on his cleaver in horror at what he's done?

Booze + Unmentionable "Parts" = Not always a good recipe. Sometimes it's a downright frightening one at that.

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Sunday, September 10, 2006

Emily Post Doesn't Live Here Anymore

"You can tell the real coffee drinkers", the Botoxed, anorexic bimbo standing in back of me at Dunkin' Donuts gushed breathlessly to her equally gaunt and pitiful looking soccer mommy friend. "They only order hot coffee."

I had just ordered my 3rd iced hazelnut coffee of the weekend. I was also picking up a bag of ground hazelnut coffee so I could save money by making it at home. It would also enable me to avoid douchebags like the asshole standing in back of me in line. Clearly this individual was absent on the day they were teaching manners. Probably too busy blowing the football team for cab fare to the mall.

Of course, I didn't feel bad later when I ran my car directly at her in the parking lot and came to a jackrabbit stop just inches away - causing her to drop her hot coffee like a steaming bomb onto the pavement. Manners is as manners does, after all. Besides, it was for the best. She would have only puked it up later. Real coffee drinkers have the decency to keep their coffee down when they're done drinking it.

I have some further words of wisdom for her:

You can tell the real insecure asswipes; they're the ones flapping their lips in public when they should be shutting the fuck up.

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Friday, September 08, 2006

For The Love Of Coffee

So, in addition to the whole diet thing and the not drinking during the work week thing, I've also pretty significantly cut back on the amount of caffeine I've been consuming over the course of the week.

I know. I can hear you now, "But, Scoop! It's like we hardly know you anymore."

To which I say, don't worry kids. I'll be getting started on getting shitfaced in about an hour. It is Friday, afterall.

But, to get back to the caffeine thing, that choice was really less about health and more about money. Once Dunkin' Donuts ratcheted their "Great One"-sized uber-coffee up to $2.25 last year or so, I decided that my weekly $11.25 could be put to better use elsewhere. For example, tonight I bought a $34 bottle of Pinot Noir instead of my usual $12 bottle of vin ordinaire.

To celebrate being sober and frugal, of course.

However, I did drop by Dunkin' Donuts to pick up some ground coffee for my French Press to enjoy this weekend. While I was there, I gave into temptation and bought a medium hazelnut iced coffee. With skim milk. You know. Diet and all.

I don't know if it's the diet talking, but it was the most fabulous coffee I've ever had. Ever.

In fact, this post is brought to you largely because of that coffee, because before that I was seriously thinking about taking a nap. Which got me thinking: I know that coffee generally has more caffeine than Diet Coke, my usual poison. However, I don't think I really thought about how much more until right now. I can drink a six pack of Diet Coke and still take nap. Right now, I don't know what Dunkin' Donuts puts in their coffee but, I'm fucking wired like it's crank or something. I'm waiting for the nervous tics and startled screaming to start.

Curious about the difference in caffeine levels between the two, I found this website: Death By Caffeine. Because, ultimately, who really cares about the levels of any general over the counter stimulant we stuff into ourselves unless it's lethal, right?

So, here's the results:

So, as it turns out, I could drink more than two times as much Diet Coke than coffee before I drank enough that it would send me into the Great Beyond. I guess I have to wonder if I'd die from early onset Alzheimer's from the aluminum in the cans before I drank enough to actually kill me.

It's questions like that which will keep me up late at night. That and the coffee.

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Beta Blogger Can Bite My Valve

No one has been banned!

I'd like to apologize to those folks who've sent me e-mails saying
they're having difficulty posting comments on the blog now that I've
switched over to Beta. I'm trying to figure out what the problem is. For
what it's worth, I'm having difficulty posting comments on "normal"
blogspot blogs using my old Blogger ID and my shiny new Google account
attached to Beta too. Even more entertainingly, trying to switch over to
Haloscan for comments on this blog involves a painful amount of HTML
code jockeying in the template that I'm not quite prepared to meatball.
If anyone out there can walk me through it with the level of guidance
and instruction you'd need to provide Corky to do something more
difficult than bag groceries, please email me (use the "Contact Me" in the
sidebar). I is a special coder.

In the meantime, if you'd like to leave a comment, just put your
usual handle at the end of it so I know who you are. Contrary to my kids' deeply held beliefs, I'm not clarivoyant.

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Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Assorted Offal

So, I'm embarking on one of those foolish adventures that begin with trying to diet and give up drinking during the work week.

It's not the first time I've tried this. The last time I attempted this I think I lasted from about the beginning of the week of that post right up until February vacation, whereupon I was knocked squarely off the work week wagon by, well, vacation.

The reasons remain the same. If I can put away a pound's worth of calories with my alcohol intake, then that is the most logical place to start cutting calories out of my diet. My morning classes are probably confused that I don't make them start the day sitting in the dark with the shades down.

And, I miss my feet.

But, dieting always just makes me obsess about food. Today I was watching The Essence of Emeril. Tivo apparently sensed weakness in me because of lack of food (and lack of turning off "Tivo Suggestions") and inflicted Emeril on me. He was making sweetbreads:

Sweetbread is the name of a dish made of the thymus (neck/throat/gullet sweetbread) or the pancreas (belly/stomach/heart sweetbread) or genitalia of an animal younger than one year old. These animals are usually piglets or calves. However, llamas may also be preferred.

And it looked good. I really wanted to eat it. Immediately. Here's the recipe.

Now, the fact of the matter is: I've had sweetbreads before. At a certain restaurant that won't let me and Mr. Scoop back in due to drunken table climbing and vague incoherent threats involving demands for little cakes. They were good. But, I've never had the desire to go out and get some for myself to prepare at home. However, at this moment I would have stabbed a guy to get some. Stabbed him and cut out his own damn sweetbreads.

So, I did the logical thing and turned off the tv. And made steamed broccoli.

Pray for me.

T minus 45 hours to Booze O' Clock. And, maybe, nachos.

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Friday, September 01, 2006

Ridicule and Mockery, Now In Convenient Infant Sizes...

Reason #7,238 why your children will grow up to hate you, abandon you in a nursing home and write a tell all book about why you were a shitty parent:

I want this motherfucking toupee off my motherfucking head!
I too will grow up to be an enormous slut who wears pasties on TV!
Weed kills pain.
That's it.  Mom?  Dad?  You're fired!

The Baby Toupee!

It's not cute. It's just flat out stupid. Not to cast aspersions on anyone's parenting but, if you do that to your kid, you're an asshole. I'm not saying that DSS should come and take your kid away, but when they're 16 and shooting smack between their toes while trying to sell their virginity on E-bay because they can't get a date because YOU BRING OUT THESE GODDAMN PICTURES EVERYTIME A BOY COMES OVER - just don't say you weren't warned.

Don't dress your kid up to look like little people. Midgets will be offended. And, besides, that's what the average bubble headed fucktard uses their dog for:

Kill me.

You're going to tell me you can't manage to rise above being a common bubble headed fucktard? What are you? Lindsay Lohan?

You don't want your kid to date? Just buy a rifle and be conveniently "cleaning" it on the couch everytime she brings a prospective suitor over. That's what my dad did. Look how good I turned out.

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