I Am Sorry I Am So Lame

My last post read like an editorial in a high school newspaper, and for that I apologize. I mean to do better, but it is late, and I’m tired, and I’ve been concentrating on this damn novel at the expense of the poetry and wit you deserve. More retro clipart at I’ll get paid for the novel, but I get nothing for the blog and even less for poetry–however, if you want more and better original content just let me know and I’ll set up a kickstarter or something–I’m a better poet and a better cook than that potato salad guy).

Send me some money and I’ll make a totally badass pizza. From scratch. Heck, I’ll auction off one of these bad boys (I do a veggie, too, and a white pizza with fresh garlic, just picked from my back yard garden yesterday) and if it goes for over $1000 or equal to .50/mile I’ll deliver it in person, along with an age appropriate beverage. SAM_0490

Ahem, where was I? Anyway, back to the lame posts:  today was the final straw.  My freaking chair broke–it was an old, straight-backed wooden chair that needed some of the dowels replaced.  It was getting wobbly, and I didn’t glue it, and I’m a BIG guy.  One of the dowels broke and it all just came apart.  Now I’m sitting on the most uncomfortable chair in known space–and it’s worse than a lot of the stuff they have in unknown space, too. (trust me, I know.)

It is impossible to write anything interesting when your ass is numb except for the occasional shooting, stabbing, mauling pain as a battered and abused nerve manages to fire.  So that’s where I am–seriously thinking about bringing a lawn chair indoors until I can make it to the thrift store for another comfortable antique.

What the hell?

Here’s a found picture to soften the blow.  That’s a lot of dogs–probably a missed opportunity for a trite jibe at Chinese restaurants.

But really, it’s a good pizza.  And no, I’m not drunk.  My ass just hurts.

Commentary Funny and/or Strange

Chuck Junk Food–Another Goldurn “Themed Post”

The following was intended to be a two or three sentence introduction to some food I like to eat and cook–good, simple fare–but it was late at night, some of my faculties had already submitted to that dark goblin, sleep, and I found this in the morning (most of which I don’t remember writing at all)….

Enuff wit the themes n’at fer cry’n aht lahd.  If you understood what I just said you “might have that Picksburgheese,” and if so, please let me apologize now: we won’t be making pierogi, which leads to an interesting sidenote: my browser’s dictionary component is completely baffled by my insertion of polish dumplings into my blog. What the hell do those tech geeks eat at Christmas?  Turkey?  Aw, jeeze…..

Turkey is for Thanksgiving.  Christmas is for ham.  To quote a great, albeit fictional man, “this isn’t Viet Nam, Smokey. There are rules!”

But I digress. (As you know I do–you even knew I was going to say that, didn’t you? Don’t worry, though–it’s part of my idiom.)

So, um. Food. I like to eat, and what’s strange is that I like to cook even a little more than I like to eat.  I don’t go in for exotica–I’m not a foodie–a person who is to food what pervert is to sex (and I’m a Democrat, so you know how weird things need to get before I start throwing around the word “pervert.”  Think: things they do to each other in Finland at the height of winter, when the sun never rises.) I have a friend who is like that with beets. She eats the shit out of beets in ways you don’t even want to imagine–I’m ribbing her.  She’s actually an incredible cook.

I don’t cook Beets.  I ate Caviar once and that qualifies me lifetime refusal to eat anything I find objectionable, for any reason, ever. Like foie gras, for example–or liver of any kind. Ever wonder why pretentious people who would not under any circumstance share a toothbrush with a blood relative could enthusiastically gulp down the organ responsible for filtering out all the horrific toxins accumulated in the blood of migratory waterfowl?  Or deer, for chrissakes–have you ever seen how many ticks are stuck to a deer at any one time, every one of them happily exchanging fluids.

A truth about foie gras–more people despise it because its considered to be cruel than do because it’s definitely gross. Being practically amoral, I come down on the “gross” side–but I was disappointed when I realized that it was just method of fattening the duck that is objectionable.  When I was young, I thought that the fattened liver was stuffed back into the throat of the cooked bird, after which it’s throat was consumed, like gory flesh and muscle cannoli.