Saturday, June 30, 2007

Spore of Deceit

I'd like to report a rape.

On Thursday, June 28, 2007, I walked into a fairly upscale steakhouse/ "New American Cuisine" joint and ordered a thin crusted, mushroom and caramelized onion pizza as an appetizer to split with Mr. Scoop while we waited for our entrees. A delicious looking piece of crispy flatbread, studded with a variety of wild mushrooms and draped in candy-like onions, arrived promptly to the table. Cheese bubbled voluptuously out from under the toppings. Tiny green flecks of chives danced across the surface of the pie. It was beautiful. I wanted it. Badly. Eagerly, I reached in to gently detach a slice from the round and bring it home to the plate. But the pizza had other plans for me. It played upon my hunger, my weakness.

I experienced an olfactory cornholing, the likes of which I did not think was possible.

The culprit? Truffle oil.

Oh sure, you think "Truffles? Aren't those supposed to be an expensive, delicious delicacy?" To which I reply: Yeah and they also use pigs and dogs to find them out in the forest. You know what my dog used to bring home to me? Well, I can't actually tell you because of the lawsuit, but some things should just stay buried. Other things aren't really the dessicated hand of your next door neighbor's elderly aunt who has mysteriously been "on vacation" in the old country in such a way that it seemed suspiciously tied to - I've said too much. And, anyway, it wasn't a dead person's hand. It just looked and smelled that way. Really. Call your lawyers off, Mr. Burdett.


This smelled worse.

Damn it. The smell of that pizza violated my nose. My sense of decency. My mind. If you asked me to point on the doll to demonstrate where it touched me, I'd punch you in the face. Those dolls never have exposed sinus cavities you can easily point to. That's just a cruel joke.

And the smell has haunted me ever since. Driving alone in the car, it creeps in. I worry that a wayward package of hamburger has been forgotten and left to rot in the trunk but, no, it's just post traumatic shock syndrome. I'd try to drink to block out the memory, but the only booze in the house right now is an earthy red wine that, sadly, has fungal notes in among the pepper and tobacco ones.

The bastard is stalking me.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Dumping Offense

Personally, I think he's better off without her.



Seriously, that's $65 that could have gone for more beer. And then you wouldn't have to settle for Miller Genuine Draft.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

The Power of Prayer

To The Driver of The Wood Paneled Minivan That Nearly Broadsided Me At 6:13AM:

I know you may not believe it, but other cars are occasionally on the road at this hour of the morning. Some of us need our first caffeine fix; others of us haven't been to bed. I'm guessing you were in that second category. You staggered, disheveled, antsy and reeking of Bacardi 151, out of your girlfriend's apartment about 15 minutes earlier. It was at that point that you realized that eventually your wife was going to be awake. She was going to wonder why she was without transport for the rat children you were trying to forget you'd made while you were pelvis deep in Kiki the "beautician". If the minivan and, more specifically, you aren't there when she gets up she's going to pack up the kids and take them to her mother's in East Koonunga. After she gets the keys back from you, that is. That is something you do not want. The child support you're already paying to the first wife is a pain in the ass and a second helping of "bitch-go-bye-bye" money is really going to cut into the ol' slush fund. No, that just will not do. So you're going to put pedal to the metal and get your ass home. She'll buy "I passed out on the couch". Maybe. If you can get the stripper glitter off. Let's not make that mistake again.

But, sir, I want you to know: I'm ok. My catlike reflexes allowed me to hit the brakes on my own poor '92 Geo Prism a mere two seconds before you would have plowed into the driver's side of my car. I'm sorry that my need for coffee that early in the morning almost interfered with your ability to avoid the wrath of your wife. What a horrid shrew beast she must be to drive you into the arms of another and then make you speed home, recklessly disregarding the safety of others like Lindsay Lohan a common meth addict.

I'm past being angry at you, sir. But, I do hope that you find something to bring the madness in your life to an end. I'm praying for you sir. I really am. I hope you find Jesus, sir. And that He kicks you squarely in the cunt.

All the best,
Me

Saturday, June 02, 2007

OWU 497

Dear Dude Who Found My Website By Googling "lost bet" + "her pants down":

Well, I hope you don't feel too stupid.

I'm sure the story about my aunt was interesting. But, it's hardly worth trying to find your way to Northeast Assfuck from Billerica, Massachusetts to see if you can claim your stake in my family's next Christmas party. My aunt really isn't that easy. And gas is too expensive to waste that way. Cool your heels. In a couple of months the Topsfield Fair will roll into, well, Topsfield. And that will provide you with lots of drunken townie chicks that it will be easier and cheaper to drive to find.

I promise, dude. Just sit tight.

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Meanwhile, I have just recently, finally, seen Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

I would like to see a remake of this.

Sure. I know that it's one of those movies that is important to modern American film history. Remakes might take away from the glory of the burlesque dancers and eventual soap actors that starred in it. And Mr. Scoop was very excited when he saw the whole "weird family that includes crippled old dude have lunch with the pretty girl(s)". It was very "must have influenced Texas Chainsaw Masacre " for him. And me too, really. Plus the chicks were very clearly the sort that must have burned themselves onto Quentin Tarantino's JungianFilm memory.

But a remake would be fun. It might have marginally better acting. You'd get to keep the really cool cars. Or even upgrade them. And then you can have cool racing scenes without someone whining that they "need NOS and they need it by tonight" (Oh, I do believe I'm looking your way Paul Walker ). And you could cast Lindsay Lohan as Billie , the rebellious go-go dancer who just wants to have fun and cut loose. Sure, she's a barely legal hellion who drinks too much and ends up dead with a knife in her back before the movie even gets close to ending. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather see that happen to more than Lindsay Lohan. Maybe Posh Spice. Maybe. Possibly Nicole Richie. Oh, and then there's Amy Winehouse.

I guess there's a lot of folks that could die to make my movie fantasy complete.

And I think that's the important thing.

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I bought a veal heart at the supermarket on Friday.

I was too hungover to cook today, so it's still in the back of my fridge. I'm really not sure why I bought it (other than it was about a dollar a pound and seemed like a good value). It seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought I might grill it. Mr. Scoop is concerned that it might be tough and need braising. He also wants me to make sure that before I serve it I remove all veins and arteries. Those will be a deal breaker if I want him to actually eat the thing.

I'm not sure I disagree.

If anyone has a good veal heart recipe, let me know.