Kid comes to the door: “Ya wanna buy chocolate for a dollar?”
No ‘Hi my name is’, no ‘I’m doing bla for school’, no warmup at all. Just ‘Buy my candy, bitch.’
OK sure I’ll play along. I’ll buy one of your shitty candybars kid. What’s this for?
Nice. Whadya play?
BASS! Hell yes! You know who Les Claypool is?
[QUEUE DAVE HARRASSING A POOR MIDDLESCHOOLER WITH PRIMUS VIDEOS FOR 15 MINUTES]
So I did a thing where I took a simple recipe and adapted it with a few changes and… aw hell.
I have been teaching myself to bake. First it was biscuits, then it was Focaccia, and now it’s this weird West Virginian thing called a “Pepperoni Roll.” I’m goaded into it by That Girl I Know, so blame her. It’s comin’ on the Holidays, and as the newly minted baker in the Taggart family it’s up to me to keep the table supplied with tasty shiznit. So today being a day off for me, I decided to do some experimentation.
This recipe is dangerous. Continue reading Weaponized Snacking
Another recipe adapted from Wellness Mama:
- * 1 tsp Borax
- * 1/2 tsp Washing Soda
- * 1/2 tsp Castille Soap
- * 1 pint warm water
There I am, minding my dishwashing, listening to euro-something, when a truly painful pun occurs to me: Continue reading Wretched, just, ugh! Horrible.
“Son, go get me some eatin’ cheese.”
I craned my neck backwards of the armrest of the couch and fixed one eye on my father. “What’d you call it?”
“Eatin’ cheese. I want some cheese to gnaw on, an’ I know your mother went to the store jus’ yestiday.”
“Yeah, that. What the hell is eatin’ cheese, dad? All cheese is meant to be ‘et.”
“No that ain’t true, there’s eatin’ cheese and then there’s cookin’ cheese.”
“Cookin… you mean shredded cheese, pop?”
“Yeah, that’s cheese you cook with.”
“Pop that’s ridiculous, I’ve seen you eat shredded cheese outta the package with both hands. All cheese is meant to be eaten. You wouldn’t say ‘Bring me some welding-cheese’ would you?”
My father sighed, and pointed to the Kitchen. Grumbling, I pulled myself out of the Dave-sized imprint in the couch and padded to the kitchen to fix a nosh plate.
“Bring some pickles and a couple beers while yer up!” he hollered from the living room.
A grey floating fog grabbed hold of my right ankle and started to drag me bodily down the hall as my friends screamed and panicked. I saw the dim fluorescent blubs flickering overhead as we picked up speed, my jacket and shirt torn away so the tender flesh of my back began to skid against cold tile. There was a roaring, and I felt blood trickling across my face.
To which I mentally told myself, FUCK ALL THIS and curled my head up to my knees. I could hear my Pilates teacher screaming at me from beyond time, “PULL! PULLPULLPULL PULLLLL! SQUEEZE ALL THE THINGS! (Ho boy, hyou’re gonna really hate me for dees.) ENGAGE YEER MAASCLES!”
Thank you Mrs. Bollet, I thought as my hands reached up and plunged into the clammy velvetty mass of ectoplasm. I grabbed. I tore. I dug. I constricted. My faceless attacker let out a wail like a fog horn and collapsed, leaving me to skid a dozen feet on my ass. I gobbled and shoveled ghost-essence into my foam-ringed smacker, making noises not unlike a kitten feasting on an especially plump and blood-gorged mouse. I leaped from wall to wall grabbing chunks of ethereal flesh as they tried to wriggle away from my hungry wrath.
Finally, it was over. I burped a small puff of evil and patted my rotund stomach. Ken and Robin and especially Eric, all looked on with admiration and horror.
Make a teenage horror victim outta ME why don’tcha.
Another really good homemade cleaner based on a recipe from Whole New Mom:
- 0.25 cup Distilled White Vinegar
- 0.25 cup Isopropyl Alcohol (AKA: Propanol, rubbing alcohol)
- 1 tbsp Corn Starch (Allergies? Substitute tapioca or arrowroot powder.)
- 1.5 cup Water
- 3 to 5 drops Blue Food Coloring
- Optional: 5 to 10 drops essential oil for scent
Combine in a general purpose spray bottle. Shake well before using, the corn starch will settle to the bottom of your container.
From Wellness Mama, a simple and amazingly effective scouring powder recipe:
- 1.0 cup baking soda
- 0.5 cup coarse kosher salt
- 0.5 cup borax
Combine and keep in an airtight container or mason jar. Great on kitchen and bathroom fixtures. Add a few drops of essential oils if you need a nice smell, make sure to shake thoroughly to combine. May settle over time, so always be sure to re-shake your compounds before use.
Side effects of going without sweets, booze, meats, and processed grains for a month:
- An avocado is a treasured treat.
- Indian cuisine makes MUCH more sense.
- You know hundreds of hidden names for carbohydrates.
- Companies add sugar to ridiculous things, such as mustard and mayonnaise.
- You can closely estimate weight and volume in both Metric and Imperial.
- Going to bed hungry is no longer scary.
- You wonder what ever made you like Wendy’s Hamburgers.
- Cheese is amazing and you want it all the time.
When you have as many fatal allergies as I have, one develops a certain relationship with one’s upper-respiratory system. Obsessed is a nice way of putting it. Ghoulish is perhaps more accurate. I’ve had something along the order of 40 bacterial sinus infections in my life. That’s a little more than one for every year I’ve been alive. The one thing you never forget, and I’ve confirmed this with other sufferers who might’ve benefited from a custom fit space suit every spring is the taste.
It’s musky, fungus-like, with a texture not unlike the lumps in tapioca pudding. It’s also the one symptom that cannot be counterfeited or ignored. Right up to the point one spits that telltale loogie into the desk-side waste basket, the symptoms can be explained any number of ways: “Oh it’s just a cold. Perhaps I need to up my Claritin dose. There was a lot of smoke in the club last night. Changing altitudes can ratchet up the pressure. I just forgot to neti-pot last night.”
It’s the classic delusion, explaining to your grandkids that the recurring tightness in your chest is just a pulled muscle. Because whatever the cost, you do NOT want another course of Amoxiclav. Better to weep bloody tears and try scraping your honker out with a bottle brush than spend a week on the commode.
Today I am at the crux of a decision: Do I make an appointment for 10 days of antibiotic hell, or do I attempt to let this disease run it’s course? What do you think, Internet?