Monday, July 25, 2011

Recipes for Eating the Rich

The Boehner BBQ:

The Senator is fat, but also old (62), so while he has a fair amount of meat on his bones, remember he is a public servant (*cough*), therefore his meat will range from overly fatty to lean "bone" meat that has the consistency of jerky. Also, he is one of those public servants (*cough*) that refuses to make his tax return public, so he's also a chicken shit. Chicken shit, as you may or may not know, tends to sour the meat.

Recommendations: tenderize, tenderize, tenderize followed by a 24 hour period of marination. After this, you may prefer a slow roast or bury him in some Luau sand with hot coals like they do with pigs. This will take some time, so you must be patient.

Consider some cabbage as a side with some pork-n-beans.

For those of you on Weight Watchers: One small 8 oz Boehner stake is approximately 124 points, which for most of you will be your entire ration for the week.

Reid's Ribs:

Senator Harry Reid is in much the same position as his Republican counterpart. He has an estimated net worth of over 5 million. This means he is one fat sow which means flavor for your and me.
I would go with a spicy rub for his outer flanks, trim the fat whenever possible (which is more than he does. Consider a massive deep fry (use peanut oil) with beer breading. I know . . . a big vat of oil for a Senator is a bit risky, but he's from Nevada, the "come lose your money in our casinos" state. I think it's worth the gamble.

Roasted potatoes sprinkled with cold butter and rosemary. Corn. He's a Mormon. Mormon's love corn, possibly because it doesn't resemble portion of the male or female anatomy (not counting the clitoris).

The richest man in the world as of this writing is Carlos Slim:

Mmm, Mexican. In one of the poorest, problematic countries on the Northern American continent, he has the most.


Consider fajitas, slow roasting and shredding for enchiladas, be liberal with the cheese, because Mr. Slim is anything but slim, so there's plenty to go around.

Frijoles with roast jalapenos and well seasoned rice.

Read the damn comic.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

10 Places to NOT Meet Women

Following hot on the calloused, diamond-studded, well-sandaled heels of such prime beef anchor paper houses as FHM, Maxim, Men's Weekly, etc. who have all answered the question to death about to where meet members of the opposite sex (depending on how opposite you really want to go--because there is a small street on the wrong side of Mexico City (if there is indeed a right side) that will test the limits of even Cosplay serial masturbators with necrophitic colon-fetishes) . . . I thought I'd explore the answer to the OTHER question. . . .

The one that no one asks . . .

Where NOT to meet women.

Here is my list of 10 places you are guaranteed not to meet or get lucky (or unlucky) with a woman:

1. Men's restrooms at truck stops where the nasal-whining music of Willie Nelson is piped into the parking lot near the gas pumps. Chili is cheap and plentiful; deodorant is optional. The toilet seats are literally bolted in the upright position and the women's bathrooms have been converted into makeshift foosball tables.

2. San Francisco. That is to say you may very well meet and mate with individuals who look like women, but one quick check of their genetics will prove otherwise. The police scientists (I know, seems like an oxymoron, but they do exist) were developing a test that involved a cotton swab and a small glass tube with a rock like substance at the bottom that would turn blue upon contact with a Y chromosome, but the courts deemed it "profiling, frivolous and unnecessary".

3. The audience of Oprah. There will be TONS of women there (literally, they actually have industrial sized shocks beneath the stage), but they will have no interest in you whatsoever. Due to the little studied "Black Hole Oprah Phenomena" or BHOP, you, a man, will become invisible to the naked or clothed eye (for girls who wear eye patches) of any woman within a 1 mile radius of the full figured talk show host. They will only be interested in Oprah and the prizes they may or may not win. Women love Oprah. You are a man. You do not love Oprah, nor do you see the fascination. Try Maury.

4. France. You are something other than French. I know this because no one French reads this blog. I've made sure of it by NEVER ever (not even once) mentioning the "C" word (no, not Cancer, Cunt or Calcutta, but thanks for playing). Young French women are complicated, pouty and like to play hard to get; old French women are complicated, depressed and are hard to get. No one but French men have a shot with any of them unless you storm the country with jackboots or know how to "get trapped in an invisible glass box while wearing white gloves and white makeup" or are willing to invest a tranquilizer gun that dispenses Rohypnol darts at amazingly long ranges. French women are astonishingly fast, despite their rampant cigarette usage.

5. The Moon. 'Nuff said. We checked it out. We came up dry (depending on your usage of the word "came"). The moon is definitely BYOP.

6. New York, Central Park at precisely 4:21 A.M. every 48th Thursday of the year. We're still studying this one. We have no idea why this becomes a null spot for the female species. Could be Solar flares. Could be a estrogen-vacuuming vortex of some sort. Or it might have to do with the fact that Charlie Sheen's cock once escaped on this precise day and time six years ago and made a nuisance of itself. (Sheen's cock is like a meteor slamming into the Earth; it only needs to happen once to make a lasting impression.)

7. Any conventions where the single focus is role playing that involves dice with more than 6 sides. Pretty much any convention that has dice with more than 6 sides will be devoid of women. In fact, dice that has more than 6 sides are to women what garlic soaked in Holy Water and God's urine is to Republicans, er, I mean vampires.

8. Sewage Treatment facilities. Maybe it's the smell. Maybe it's the idea. Maybe it's the fact that there are zero, count them, zero women who don't think they can do better job-wise, but running shit through pipes and pouring chemicals on them seems to be something that only interests men.

9. Alaska. I know. You've seen Northern Exposure and pictures of Sarah Palin and her many daughters whose family crest actually has a broken condom on the shield to symbolize poor judgment, but the fact that most people forget is that Sarah Palin and her family are all actually fictional. As of this writing, the U.S. Census Bureau proclaims that females make up 48% of the population in this frigid state. What they've neglected to mention is that the Census Workers are so lonely in the frozen North that they now consider most wild life as "entirely datable", and they're not talking about "data".

10. The Senate. Go figure, but it's a sausage fest. 17 women to 83 men. I honestly don't know what the Senators are thinking. I for one like the sound of pantyhose whisking whisking whisking until I'm ready to lay down another $20 at the local strip club during my three hour, eight Bourbon lunch, but who am I to judge?

Read the damn comic.

Sunday, June 19, 2011


The "cloud" is the newest catch phrase. The cloud is everything you need. It has all your movies, all your music, and it's yours (sort of).

"Give me everything you own or, um, at least have paid for, all your entertainment content," the Cloud whispers to us, "and I'll give it back to you whenever and wherever you want. I'm your perfect girlfriend. My legs are always open. Finally you can watch porn in church, listen to Hip-hop at work, re-visit your favorite horror movie while being sodomized by the TSA, mmm latexy."

How can I resist?

2 reasons:

1. I downloaded a whole bunch of music from Walmat. Silly me, I got them in the Windows format (.wmv). One day though, a nasty little PC-blurp gave me some problems and I lost a lot of content. Oh, I still had the music. It was on my mp3 player and on a hard drive, but the licenses wouldn't let me transfer them. They'd been corrupted. I went back to Walmart in desperation to see if they'd let me re-download. After all, I'd paid for them, and some of them not that long ago. Surprise! Some them DID let me re-download, but only the mp3s. Walmart had stopped carrying all wmv formats though, so if I wanted them, I'd have to pay for them again.

They'd pulled a switch-a-roo and wanted to soak me for the same money as before.

Some of this music I had on vinyls, then re-bought on CDs, and having lost the CDs, now decided to buy "online".

Question: How many times do I have to pay for the same song?

Question: If I had a record, tape cassette or CD, couldn't I put it on this PC, then put it on that PC, then that mp3 player without problem?

What did I do? you ask (if not, I'll wait for you to ask, and if you don't, I'll come to your house, erase all of your DRM licenses and put a baby alligator in your toilet bowl). What did I do? I got a torrent and stole them. Why? Because I was pissed off at having to buy the same music again that I'd bought a month before.

Now, if I'd broken the CD or lost it, I'd have to re-buy it, right? So isn't this just like that?

No, and here's why. If I lost or cracked my CD, that's my own damn fault. I have all the protection, the anti-virus, the spybot, the backups, but through no fault of my own, things happen with PCs, Microsoft, etc.

A more apt analysis would be if I sold you a CD, then a friend of mine snuck into your house and laid it out in the Sun on your window sill creating a lovely, decoratively warped coaster that would no longer even fit in a CD player, much less play, then I showed up again the next day wanting to sell you another CD with the same music. How many times do you think I could pull this off?

2. It's a cheat. You never really own anything anymore, do you? You own a ticket to come into their store and listen to your music. Granted, their store can be wherever you want to be, but it's still their store. They don't have to worry about building better, more powerful hard drives or smart phones. They only have to worry about creating better, more ubiquitous broadband. But what happens when their system goes down? What happens when they decide you should pay to be in their store to listen to your music? They could, you know? They could change the rules however they like, and you wouldn't have a single hard copy of a single thing in your library, because your library belongs to them.

The cloud is ultra-convenient. It doesn't require anything but for you to have a device and a decent internet connection. You don't have to haul DVDs and CDs around. You will go for it, because of the convenience. We both know you will. I might, too. But it's a ghost in the making, a haunt we can all see as we're nodding with smiling, drooling enthusiasm as we kiss the real estate agent's gloss right off her lips and give her a fat commission.

The cloud is also an amazing database of your likes and interests, so they can do a better, more efficient job of selling you more stuff.

I can't wait for the cloud to come to the clothing stores. I'll call ahead and have the department store deliver to me a jacket and a nice pair of sneakers, but at end of the day, they'll be waiting outside my front door with two bruisers holding aluminum baseball bats, wanting their clothes back. After all, we're not a buy culture anymore, we're a rent culture.

What do you own?

Your house? No. Your bank owns your house until you pay off your mortgage. I'll let you stop laughing or crying about how long that's going to take. But if you're in the lucky .0000000001 % of people who have paid off their mortgage, then your house belongs to the state. Try not paying your property taxes for a year or so and you'll find out really quick who your house really belongs to.

What about your car? Bank again, unless it's paid off. I suppose even if you didn't pay for your license and registration or your driver's license or state mandated auto-insurance, you could still keep ownership of your car. You just couldn't drive it on public roads.

Your pets! Ah, you own your pets. Whew. Wait . . . does the cloud take pets?

read the damn comic.