Category Archives: Humor

The Best Damn Roasted Cucumber Recipe Ever Devised

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Expert Cooking Advice From X Teri, Noted Chef

As a noted expert in the field of cooking, I’ve figured out the whole “Roasted Cucumber Slices” thing.

I made some today with lemon juice and Tajín. Dawn at least tried them when I said, “They evoke the taste of fried green tomatoes.” She popped one in her mouth and immediately puckered up. She then reminded me she doesn’t like fried green tomatoes. I’m glad Fannie Flagg is still alive, otherwise, my wife’s reaction would have earned her a downgrade in reputation.

If you’re interested, I deviate wildly from most of the recommended websites in regards to roasted cucumber slices. Some sites recommend low temperatures such as 170 for longer times. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

First, heat the oven to at least 400. Spray a metal cooking sheet with your favorite cooking spray.

As much as I love parchment paper, you don’t need it for this unless your cucumbers are more desiccated than the mouth of a starving vampire.

(Real men will note that they should use axle grease for the cooking sheet. But on the other hand, real men don’t know how to cook roasted cucumber slices: it’s in the rule book under “No.”)

Before putting the seasoned cucumber slices on the pan, heat it in the oven for 3-4 minutes. You should also count to 180 in a foreign language while you wait. It won’t help you cook any better, but it will give you a pretentious air necessary to be regarded as a “good cook.” (And not the “Breaking Bad” kind of cook, either, no matter how pretty Blue Ice is in the summer sunlight.

I prefer using smaller cucumbers. Wash them but don’t peel them. Only people who think limited-edition collector’s plates peel their cucumbers. Just don’t do it. Slice the cucumbers into very thin slices. You shouldn’t need an electron microscope, so don’t fret about how thick they might be. Whatever you think “thinly sliced” means, do that.

So help me god, if anyone mentions using a mandoline to slice the cucumbers, I will come to your house and shave the hindquarters of your favorite pet. Mandolines are simply not permitted in American households. If you have one, please stop reading now, get your mandolin from the kitchen, then throw it out the back door wherever you live.

For additional points, chop as quickly as humanly possible. Try to do it like that android on the “Alien” movie did the knife trick around fingers. Professional chefs worry too much about safety in the kitchen. We’ve been eating for thousands of years and no one has gotten seriously injured yet. Note from the lawyers: that last statement is false, so unless you are Republican, ignore that last part.

In a bowl, (the slices – not you), splash the slices with lemon juice as if you are doing a Catholic mass on Saturday morning. Add whatever seasoning you wish: curry powder, lemon pepper, Tajín, cheese sprinkles. If you aren’t sure, try it on there. Cucumbers are cheaper than opinions at a NASCAR rally.

Place the cucumber slices on a single level on the warm cooking sheet. Do not make neat rows or patterns when you do this. It annoys normal people to see neatly arranged things we’re all going to eat anyway.

Put the pan in the oven. (Where else would you put it?)

Don’t do anything for 10 -14 minutes. At 10-14  minutes, keep a cautious eye on the slices. They will turn from almost crispy and tinged with brown to flaming to the ceiling if you blink too long. Personally, I love almost everything even if it is burned. But for you normal people out there, you need to be cautious.  Except for the pyros: you guys can set the oven for 500 and leave it for 4 days if you want. (You only live once.)

One thing you need to understand about roasted cucumbers slices is that they simply don’t taste the same once heated and dried. If you take the time to make these and anyone in your family refuses to try them or appreciate the effort, borrow a gun if necessary and repeat your request that they at least try these delicious slices of heaven. Fire a warning shot if you don’t notice a dramatic increase in enthusiasm as your loved ones stuff their faces with these things.

As a bonus, if you make them as I indicate, they are very low in calories.

You’ll note that your life is suddenly awash with happiness and peace. It’s an inevitable change once you start following my cooking advice. 450 Ukrainian diplomats can’t be wrong.

 

PS: If you don’t trust me, you can Google recipes for these yourself. Be warned, though. There are a LOT of weirdos on the internet these days, some of whom are masquerading as good cooks.

 

 

 

 

Paris Climate Deal is Not Mentioned In This Post

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Tired of politics?

After careful consultation with esteemed political consultants, my wife and I are proud to announce that our cat, Güino, will soon announce his candidacy for political office.

Since he doesn’t talk, he won’t be lying like so many others. Additionally, we can interpret his meows to mean anything that appeals to us – thus solving the biggest problem in politics today.

Finally, Güino has all 9 of his lives remaining and he has pledged to use them all to improve this great country of ours.

Given the shenanigans of the last election, Güino has decided to reach across the aisle (unlike current politicians) and choose a dog to-be-named-later as his Vice President, thus healing the divide of this country.

Please remit funds for his candidacy to your local Humane Society.

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I think I’m fixated on food: when I taught the children how to tie their shoes, I demonstrated the garlic knot.

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As I walked the winding decline of the parking deck, I felt as if I were being watched by a dozen pairs of unseen eyes. When I had walked down to the next level I realized my error. Above the steps going both up and down was a sign: “STARES ONLY.”

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Ignore This Post

Trump lowered the bar for the Presidency. Kathy Griffin lowered the bar for comedy. I’m going to the bar to come up with a better analogy.

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A new brand of popcorn (I created) if you are sitting around waiting for the president-for-now to blow the place up: Orb-ille Redenbacher Popcorn.

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Tenacity is one of those things which I’ve found people to woefully misjudge.

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Forget Notre Dame ‘insulting’ Pence. Today’s footage of Trump expanding his library of ignorant speeches was priceless. Many of the leaders of the free world were openly mocking him, snickering, and otherwise demonstrating how important his opinion is to…anyone.

Toward the end of the video, an older white-haired man walked briskly along the background, adjacent to the wall. I imagined that it was Bernie Sanders, impatiently pacing back and forth, vainly trying to control his impulse to blast an air horn toward DJ Trump. I added an arrow so you can spot him.

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In a first for politics, the newest model Hoover vacuum cleaner was appointed to be the next Attorney General, after it was determined that it sucks less than current appointee Jeff Sessions.

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When I performed my recital at Walton Arts Center, the audience gave its first ever Standing Negation.

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In the future, vehicles which can fly will be great: if you own a dog and take it with you in the car, you will have a ‘flying car pet,’ just like Aladdin.

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My arrest was a big misunderstanding. I advertised on Craigslist as a ‘Ford Escort Service,’ and only because that’s the car I’m gonna drive for Über. I had 11 middle-aged guys in the backseat before I exited the driveway.

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Often slowly; eventually, though, people always talk because that’s what we do. If you are counting on secrecy to protect your accumulated reputation, you’re gonna have a bad time.

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We age the most not in the lines of our face but in the depths of our hearts. – x

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I’m not saying he’s not a nice person, but I know for a fact that he goes to the proctologist daily: not for an appointment, but so that he can be around other assholes.

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Newport Potatoes, Aziz Ansari & ‘Master of None’

 

 
This post will be of interest to those who cook or watch TV, and probably even those weirdos who cook while watching – and perhaps even Peeping Toms who watch those who do either or both. I think I’ve covered the potential fan base of this post adequately, except to remind you to stop cooking in the nude.

Comedian Aziz Ansari’s second season of “Master of None” is on Netflix. It’s one of the most genuinely comedic shows I’ve watched in a long time. It also connects on a deeper level, pinging a depth of emotion and shared experiences that’s difficult for most shows to approach. The nuances are clouded inside a veneer of comedy but I find this to be the case with most shows that I appreciate.

While watching the latest season, I laughed like a diseased jackal when I heard that they too had a recipe for “Newport Potatoes,” a recipe that my mom perfected through countless meals in my youth.

Here’s the recipe for Newport Potatoes: use the regular mashed potatoes recipe, except ensure that a careless and/or drinking chain smoker is in the room and involved in making the potatoes. They’re called “Newport Potatoes” due to the popular Newport cigarettes. My mom tended to make “Winston Potatoes,” though.

(Note: At one point, Newport cigarettes accounted for almost 1/2 of all African-American cigarette sales. I loathe including true facts in my posts, but this one was interesting enough to warrant a detour from my usual tomfoolery.)

So, as I often warn people, check your potatoes before eating, to ensure that it’s black pepper in the spuds instead of cigarette ash. (Not that cigarette ash tastes bad or causes gastric distress.)

“That’s Not His Name”

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“Good morning Officer Farva,” I jovially told the approaching security guard.

I won’t identify him by name, as his mustache alone would incriminate him. But that mustache – you know the cliché all too well, is one ripped from the upper lip of every stereotypical small-town cop. His short, cropped hair looks like it’s still mad at the owner for the haircut inflicted upon it. It is the sort of haircut that is intended to convey a Drill Sergeant’s seriousness but instead makes you wish you could weep for something so petty as another person’s hairstyle.

“That’s not my name,” he disapprovingly growled.

I don’t know what spirit of chicanery overcame me but I did something I never do: I started dancing rhythmically, much like Frankenstein might have when first electrocuted. I don’t dance like no one is watching – I dance like no one is paying me.

I also started chanting the lyrics to ‘That’s Not My Name’ by the Ting-Tings.

The look of incredulity on the security guard’s face can be best compared to that of a mechanic upon flinging open a customer’s hood and discovering a cadre of energetic squirrels powering the engine.

After a few seconds, I laughed and told him, “But your badge indicates that your name is Rod Farva.”

To my surprise, he looked down and folded his badge toward his gaze to read the name on it. He seemed both confused and relieved his actual name was in fact still on the badge.

I strutted away with a laugh as if I just won “Dancing With the Stars,” or, as would be more likely in my case, “Dancing With the Stares.”

“You are truly and irrevocably weird!” He said and then he laughed, begrudgingly, as humor is federally forbidden while on duty.
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PS: Rod Farva is the name of the annoying cop from “Super Troopers,” widely considered to be an actual documentary of how police behave.

Joe Kwon Do

Click link and button above to hear the latest ad I made for Joe, to compete with the Krav Maga system.

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Joe, a large friend of mine, someone who looks like a human Bigfoot, despises those Israeli Krav Maga self-defense courses. Not content with merely turning off the radio when a commercial comes on for the local version, my friend rips the entire radio out of the dashboard and hurls it across the freeway. Naturally, this costs him a lot of money. His point is that if he can yank the stereo out of his vehicle while driving, he doesn’t need a goofy martial arts course to show him how to pull a human arm from its socket.

If you know anything in life, other than “You do not talk about Fight Club,” the second rule is that you do not tell your friends what you despise, or you will see and/or hear it for the rest of your life, and probably nine times at your funeral.

Given my friend’s hatred for Krav Maga commercials, I had no choice  but to make 11 different versions of the same jokes for him.

You’re welcome Mr. Bigfoot. Stop ripping out your car stereos. Not everyone was born with arms that look like the back leg of a bull. PS: And if you try to whip my butt I will use those Krav Maga tactics I learned just from listening to the terrible ads on the radio.

 

Apocalypse +1

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“Make no mistake, if you sit at their table, you’re going to have to use their cards to play the game.”

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They promised me “chaos” everywhere today. I called him. He was already out there celebrating. Be like Captain * Chaos. Celebrate in victory or celebrate in loss because we are all still alive.

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I’m going to miss this election, like an old friend who spent a drunken night at my house, stole my wallet, and used my toothbrush to clean his motorcycle.

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The above picture describes the general consensus, after Hillary won the popular vote and lost the election.

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“It’s hard explaining in another language that the candidate for liberalism won the popular vote and lost the election. It’s exactly how you would LIKE “The Voice” to decide the winner but never does.” – X

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As each of y’all know, each President gets his official portrait done. Trump, not wanting to waste a single minute, has already privately reached out to potential artists interested in a commission to do his White House portrait. Given my immense artistic ability (the best, the absolute best), my commitment to a prompt call for service, not to mention by huge admiration for con artists, I pondered for hours, agonizing on the best possible way to capture Trump’s essence. When I finished this, tears of joy ran down my liberal cheeks as I contemplated the likelihood of being chosen from the many for this honor. I’m hearing that mine’s the best. People from all over are saying it’s going to be huge.

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Boozman Salts His Ice Cream

 

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Remember when you could really pick on someone without mud slinging? Here’s my John Boozman joke.

Boozman goes to a dermatologist and tells him, “Doc, the skin on my face is peeling really bad! What can you do for me? My opponent Conner Eldridge is a great-looking guy and I can’t have something like this during a campaign. I already look like Steve Buscemi.”

The doctor examines him, frowns several times, and leaves the room for at least 30 minutes.

“Well?” asks Boozman as the dermatologist returned, obviously reluctant to give the senator bad news.

“John, the reason your facial skin is peeling off is that it’s trying to escape the ugly.”
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PS: I’m only kidding about John Boozman being ugly.
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But I have heard rumors that he salts his ice cream before eating it. And he hated the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act so badly that he won’t even attend a county fair for fear of a typographical mix-up. Also, when I went to buy a suit, I thought I saw him at Dillard’s, but it turned out to be a literal empty suit on the end of the aisle.
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This is the kind of political rhetoric needed in today’s climate of poison eye darts.

A Trivia/Break-In Story

The following is a true-ish account of events that took place in October, 7 years ago at the Hignite household. Although some literary license has been taken, the entirety of this story is true. (All the errors are mine.)

Mike Hignite was sitting in his living room, burning the midnight oil. The lights were dimmed to the point of invisibility, given Mike’s Batman-like ability to see in the dark. In Mike’s hands was the book, “Computational Calculus Meets Divine Interpolation.” (As you all know, Mike only sleeps 55 minutes a night.) Mike could hear the peaceful rhythm of Marjay’s infrequent and melodious snore from the bedroom not too far away. The sound reminded him of slightly upset magpies on an early spring morning.

At about 12:04 a.m. a sharp metallic sound interrupted Mike from his reading. He carefully placed his book on the table to his right, his right hand then feeling alongside his chair until his fingers encountered the miniature replica Babe Ruth baseball bat next to him.

A couple of minutes later, Mike observed a black work boot materialize at the edge of the dimly lit living room, inching its way into his field of vision. After a few seconds, he observed an entire leg follow it around, then an arm and the torso of a black-clad stranger. The intruder then crept along the wall, oblivious to Mike’s presence. Mike slowly stood upright and moved along the gap between the living room and the kitchen. In a few seconds, the intruder would literally run directly into Mike.

Instead of proceeding, the stranger fumbled around in his left pocket and found a small cylindrical object, clicking it. A beam of light shot from the flashlight and reflected on the concrete floor. Mike slowly lifted the replica Babe Ruth bat until it was high above his head. He waited. As the stranger moved the flashlight up, the beam of light shone directly on Mike’s head, bat raised above it.

Half-smiling, Mike whispered, “Boo!” in a soft voice.

At this point, the intruder screamed like a broken, strangled teakettle and froze. Mike reached over and flipped the overhead lights on. The intruder, for reasons not ascertained, screamed again.

“Have a seat over there.” Mike pointed casually at the intruder. After a moment, the intruder moved and carefully sat down in one of the dining room chairs. Mike walked over to the fridge and opened it, getting two bottles of water out. He opened one and handed it to the masked intruder. He knew the law-breaker was going to need to stay hydrated.

The intruder reached up and pulled his ski mask up and off his head, revealing a mass of curly red hair. He looked to be about 17 years old.

“How did you know I wasn’t armed?” asked the surprisingly high-pitched voice of the intruder.

“What makes you think it matters?” Mike replied.

At a loss for coherent words, the intruder simply muttered, “My name is Israel. Are you going to call the police?”

“Nah, I won’t call the police, only because they are already here.” Mike took a big gulp of water from his bottle, as Israel looked at him, confused, then around the kitchen to search for evidence that the police were, in fact, already there.

Mike reached behind his head and from literally nowhere that could be seen with the naked eye, pulled out a badge, showing it to Israel. Israel turned ashen. Mike laid his badge on the table, next to the huge stack of mail and personal items the family insisted on tossing there as they passed by.

“I’m not going to call MORE police, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But I will make you a deal. The same deal I make with everyone who breaks into my house, if you’re interested.”

“A deal?” Israel’s look of confusion only intensified. “What kind of a deal?”

“You can choose to either go to jail tonight. Or you can play a game of trivia. If you win, I let you go and you take all the money I have in the house with you. If you lose, you go to jail.” Mike smiled in that secret way that only he and 6 unidentified CIA officials would understand. This is the point where Israel should have flung himself headfirst through the nearest window to take his chances. But he didn’t, ignorant and oblivious to what would soon face him.

“Okay, I’ll play you,” Israel said with mock confidence.

“Slow down, pardner. You’re not playing me. I’m going to wake my oldest son up. Oh – and don’t thank me. I’m not doing you any favors.” Mike downed the remainder of his water and went to wake up the genius of the house.

So, that’s how it came to pass that at 6:32 a.m. on a Tuesday morning the residents of ______ Avenue in Springdale saw the strangest of sights: a large, red-haired man dressed in black ran crying and screaming from the Hignite household. Some witnesses claim that the unknown person fleeing was whimpering, “Stay in school! Stay in school and make good choices,” as he ran away. At the door of the Hignite house stood Jackson and Mike, howling with laughter.

“Dad, I sure hope someone else breaks in soon. I love these moments!” Jackson turned and looked at his dad and winked. They laughed one last time as they shut the door, going back inside just in time to see Marjay emerge from the kitchen and exclaim, “Not again!”

 

PS: Mike is a friend of mine who is actually a police officer. Every member of the family is a genius and the scenario I describe above is what I would like to imagine occurs frequently at the Hignite Household.