If someone complains about celebrities by saying, “They are actors and athletes! What do I care about their opinion?”
“That’s funny because I’m thinking the exact same thing about YOUR opinion,” might be my response.
If someone complains about celebrities by saying, “They are actors and athletes! What do I care about their opinion?”
“That’s funny because I’m thinking the exact same thing about YOUR opinion,” might be my response.
Unabashedly political. I made this picture in November 2016. Each time he speaks, his inarticulateness and lack of qualification echo painfully in my head. Our country is so full of warm, intelligent people, no matter their party affiliation. Yet, here we are, watching as the literal least among us works his terrible dark magic on the world.
Imagine the most exotic and beautiful bird your mind can conjure. You can picture its plumage, adorned with a prismatic array of colors, each a mystery to your curious eyes. As it moves, its feathers separate like a cloud of butterflies, producing a melodic and calming rustle. Its eyes shine with the brilliance of the promising universe which surrounds it.
That same bird now soars in the air and slowly descends upon on one of the outstretched limbs of a towering tree, it leaves a vivid green and the bulbous fruit hanging from the limbs make your mouth water with imagined anticipation and savor.
The bird stretches its elegant neck and takes one of the fruits and eats it, causing the scent of immense sweetness to burst into the air in a rainbow arc.
Now, imagine that fruit turning to what it inevitably must, passing through this beautiful bird and falling from its behind.
That’s what this peanut butter spread tastes like.
Because crap is crap.
P.S. I wish you could have witnessed the look on my wife’s face when the flavor of this malevolent food touched her taste buds. She sat at the table, hunched over and smiling. Her face registered the hope of delight and the doubt of trying something new as the spoon touched her tongue. As the horrific flavor of this food invaded her taste buds, I could envision a dark sky filled with the corpses of plummeting angels, all decimated in flight from the unadulterated evil contained in the jar within Dawn’s reach.
Warning: this madness may trigger you, either on the grounds of satire or foolishness. Were it my choice, partisanship would go the way of the Blue Squirrel, full of pellets and eaten with roasted potatoes. Part of the joy living in a d̵i̵c̵t̵a̵t̵o̵r̵s̵h̵i̵p̵ free country is that each of gets to voice our own ridiculous opinions. Unless you work in the NFL, home of the buy-one-get-one-free concussion special.
I voted on election day because the rodeo grounds in Springdale is the best voting station in Northwest Arkansas – and not just because they have free coffee and tanning beds available. The voting stations are no longer drive-through, though, as I discovered the hard way. Note: vehicle insurance covers these types of mishaps. My apologies to Janet, John, and Frida, who thankfully escaped injury as I drove through. It is fitting that the same odor which sometimes graces the hallowed acres of the rodeo grounds also captures the essence of the political process. It is an olfactory reminder that we shouldn’t take our own vote for granted, much in the same way that those already in office tend to take us for granted.
It serves as an early voting location, too, for the county. I tend to early-vote twice and then just once on election day unless my social media friends have been especially tedious and annoying about voting – in that case, I vote 3 or 4 times. The throngs of ineligible voters the Democrats bus to my voting location usually give me adequate cover to not get caught. (Note: part of that was a joke, obviously, much like the current presidency.) As a fairly nondescript middle-aged white guy who is often favorably compared to Danny Devito, I tend to blend in well with people, until I open my big mouth. They assume I’m a Republican mostly because I sound ridiculous and doubly so if you can understand what I’m saying. Once I get my hand inside their wallets, though, they know I tend to vote as a progressive. Any chance I get to vote to raise taxes, I do so gleefully and if I can raise yours too, I consider it a bonus.
I opted to vote in the Republican primary again, mainly to disrupt the process. Not that the GOP needs my help. Putting Trump in office has given everyone the idea that they should run for office, even if they are currently leaking brain fluid. I gladly did the same in 2016 so that I could vote against Trump in the GOP Presidential primary. In November, I had the honor of voting against him again. Because I live in Arkansas, though, the hordes overwhelmed me, as they were armed with the antiquated “Electoral College,” which is just about as bad as weighted voting on “The Voice.” I wish that the Native Americans would get together and deport all these white Europeans who are ruining the country. Somewhere, there’s a “Fox and Friends” viewer who is reading these words who is getting really pissed off. “That’s racism!” he or she will undoubtedly repeat two or three times before dragging out his or her old typewriter to write the editor an angry letter. That last part is supposed to be funny, too, because we all know that no self-respecting Fox & Friends viewer is going to read anything past the first paragraph unless it says “Applebee’s” across the top of the menu.
I voted against Steve Womack in the 3rd District race and I’ll vote against him again in November, probably twice just to be safe. There’s a rumor that he might have to drop out of the race in order to have the stick up his rear end removed. Those who revere his rigid posture often overlook the fact that it’s due to that same stick. (Also, he looks like Mike Pense’s 2nd cousin after a hard weekend of drinking.) I voted against Asa, even though Jan Morgan is nuttier than a closet full of fruitcakes. She wouldn’t win the primary, of course, so I’ll vote against Asa again this fall. She might be the next VP candidate, though, if Tom Cotton ever figures out that literally, anyone can become president. Additionally, it irritates me that Asa’s actual first name is “William.” For the supreme court, I voted for David Sterling, because more dark money was spent in his favor than the other candidates. In the Age of Trump, that’s the kind of idiotic logic that I find myself agreeing with. A massive influx of dark money and influence is very important to me, unless you ask me, in which case I’ll say the opposite and do so while waving my arms nonsensically. I’m not too fond of the supreme court, anyway, since black olives and onions are generally terrible on pizza.
Because I’m adept at reading upside down, I scanned down the clipboards the poll workers left in plain sight on the registration table. First, the text I was reading upside down was inverted- not me. I think the poll workers would not have been amused had I been upside down, either like a slumbering vampire or a gymnast walking on my hands. The R columns vastly outnumbered the D columns; simply put, the Republicans turned out in much greater numbers to vote today. I understand that there are variables which affect this observation, not the least of which is that a progressive voter is more likely to early-vote and traditional voters also tend to be retired and can, therefore, follow the tradition of voting on the day of the election. I like to think that by voting in the GOP primaries that marketers foolishly assume that I am anywhere in a Venn Diagram with their targeted constituency. Obviously, if I were to suffer a major head trauma it is possible that I would suddenly start seeing both logic and appeal in the platform of the GOP but until then, please continue to send me ridiculous flyers to warn me of the dangers of foreigners and the need to personally own no fewer than 17 guns, each of which I’ve given cute names.
I enjoy the moment immediately after I give the poll worker my I.D. Given that the average poll worker is older, he or she invariably reads my name at least ten times. Most of them usually give up and assume that my license, like every other person in this state, lists my last name first and vice versa. When requested to do so, I try to find the strangest way to recite my name, address, and date of birth. Today was no exception. My wife hates the way I recite my date of birth even though logically it’s the only way to be precise while simultaneously getting on everyone’s nerves. That last part is very important to me. One of my favorite quips is to quickly ask, “Date of conception, you asked?” and then pretend to start counting backward with the months of the year.
I sometimes ask if they have ballots with pictures of the candidates on them. One day, the answer will be “Yes.” It seems only fair if they can ask me to repeat the information that is plainly visible on the I.D. they are holding, I have the reciprocal right to amuse myself with a barrage of my own questions to yield the confused and nervous looks they often give me.
All of y’all pushing to get everyone out to vote should sometimes stop and remember that people like me listen and go vote, much to the detriment of the political process.
I was a little disappointed to find out that it was a rumor that Springdale was voting on whether to get rid of that horrible criss-cross pattern it chose as it’s mascot. Logo. I mean to say, “Logo.” The poll workers did tell me, however, that I was welcome to get some colored permanent markers and change all the logos in the city myself. Heads up, Chamber of Commerce and local constabulary.
Once done voting, I boarded the bus with the throngs of ineligible voters. As we drove away from the rodeo grounds, we saluted our framed picture of Robert Mueller.
My wife Dawn & I have a ritual of eating Mexican food on Thursday, when possible. Since we are eating considerably healthier than what used to be the case, there are times when it feels as if we are at risk of starvation by the time we reach the magical doors of the selected Mexican eatery. Today was such a day. Dawn has lost a lot of weight in the last weeks and I had to make another hole in my belt earlier this week. To say that we were anticipating our trip of culinary indulgence would be an insult to the word “exaggeration.” I was salivating so much on the way to the restaurant that I thought I might need to hang my head out the car window as I drove, much like a large and enthusiastic dog might. I had my extra bottle of Tajin seasoning next to me. (If you don’t know what Tajin is, please accept my words of pity and condolences for you.)
My stomach was not only growling but also filling out complaint cards of protest. A few things to note… We tip exceptionally well. I have tipped over 100% at some Mexican restaurants. If the staff plans just a little, they only need to visit our table once. (When it’s just us two, we never want a refill, for example.) Also, my favorite food in the world is pico de gallo, eaten in bulk and by using the food shovel of a chip to consume it. I constantly tell staff to feel free to charge me for an order of chips and salsa as most of the time the entrees aren’t interesting to me. I’ll order one for appearances but my heart belongs to pico de gallo and chips and salsa.
We’ll forgive any recipe disaster, including eyeballs in our rice or long dark hairs in our cheese sauce, as long as there are sufficient chips and salsa. I’ve been known to keep the wrong food if it’s brought to me or pay the bill even if I’ve been over-charged. Mexican food is that important to my mental well-being.
Today, we went to our ‘go-to’ eatery. In a bizarre twist, it wasn’t busy. It started out great but deteriorated from there. In a nod to those suffering First World Problems, we only had one less-than-full basket of chips. Given the volume of pico de gallo I requested, I hadn’t anticipated such a dramatic turn of events. The precise math necessary to calculate chip-to-pico enjoyment is difficult but it can be best summed up by the words “always over-estimate.”
We hit the bottom of our chip basket well ahead of schedule. Dawn and I exchanged horrified looks, as we had missed our opportunity to beg for a refill when the waitress walked away. As far as I know, she may well now be featured on a milk carton, so quick was her exit and noticeable her subsequent absence. Given the lack of chips, I had no choice except to eat from my actual entree. This is an unconscionable abomination. So disinterested am I in the entree selection that I’ve started almost ordering randomly.
For my selection today, my plate included a ‘chicken enchilada.’ Like the expectation of a loud scream or being startled by some unseen animal or person at the beginning of a horror movie, it did indeed contain that most vile concoction of shredded chicken, the kind that always smells like putrid chicken-in-a-can and looks like what a buzzard might regurgitate to its young. It is a rare thing to find shredded chicken anywhere that I can’t almost see the smell-waves emanating from it. Shredded chicken is too chickeny, in other words.
As we finished our available selection of edible portions on our plates, I noticed that it seemed as if our table must have an invisible solar eclipse above it. No one would look our direction. I stacked our plates on the outer edge of the table, an invitation to the perplexing “let me make room for you” offer that staff inevitably makes, even though the plates are never in fact in our way. No one succumbed to this universal call for retrieval. The plates and utensils remained there, stacked and immobile, adjacent to the forlorn and long-empty chip basket.
“We might as well go. We’re like people wearing Trump hats in here,” I told Dawn.
We both managed to avoid breaking out in tears. Our mouths watered with the mirage of further tortilla chips and salsa.
We drove home in silence, both of our faces locked in somber reflections of the meal that almost was.
Just kidding about that last part. We speculated about every possible scenario for the ‘why’ of The Great Tortilla Chip Famine of April 26th. My best guess is that on a sufficiently long enough timeline, you’ll not only be cheated out of enough chips and salsa, but also have to endure the presence of that vile ‘food’ known as shredded chicken.
P.S. I took my shredded chicken home in a folded napkin as an experiment. I threw it to a pack of wild dogs near the edge of Sonora. The dogs became so enraged at me for putting it anywhere near them that they almost tore my left arm before I could run and dive back into the relative safety of my wife’s Honda. As I drove away, I watched the dogs paw at the ground and bury the remains of that monstrosity known as shredded chicken.
In my ongoing quest to make my gastronomical preferences and critiques well-known…
“DomiNO’s: They put the “NO” in pizza.”
Adventure In Marketing
As many of you know, I often do work for other websites, usually satirical, and often hare-brained. Most of it I do without credit, which works out favorably for all concerned.
Recently, I had the chance to apply for an unpaid ‘think tank’ for an unnamed major U.S. pizza chain. When I first interviewed, I was certain I wouldn’t be chosen – as one of the hurdles was an IQ test. Since anyone who knows me knows that I find these things to be ridiculous and without merit, I finished mine in less than 4 minutes, using a system I call ‘random.’
When I slid it back across the oak table to the person conducting the IQ tests, she said, “Sir, you have 25 minutes to complete it all.” Without missing a beat, I replied that I already knew my IQ score.
“Really? What’s your score?” she sneered.
“Low oxygen level,” I replied, without daring to crack a smile.
I went home and almost forgot about the application process. Three weeks later, a welcome packet arrived in the mail, along with a website login and a credentialing packet. I had been accepted despite my interview antics.
By sheer coincidence, I had recently tried to treat myself by ordering home delivery pizza. I had eaten healthy for a week and thought that a celebration was needed to keep my motivation.
It was a disaster. The cardboard box tasted better than the pizza. I was hoping to throw up, just to get the taste of that pizza out of my mouth.
The next day, I logged in to the marketing website to start an assignment. Lo and behold, the subject was the very same company which had reminded me how low the bar could be set for edibles.
I weighed the pros and cons of each option: submit great work and possibly be rewarded OR write the best food review possible.
This is the result: the new logo and motto for Pizza Hurt. Look for it at a location hopefully very far from where you are.
Please forgive my passive-aggressive, tongue-in-cheek commentary…
Off the wall observation: Springdale has no law which prevents someone from leaving up holiday lights all year. So, if the POA/HOA doesn’t have one either, this means that I am perfectly fine installing the gaudiest, ugliest, flashiest nonsense that I wish to- and never, ever remove them, no matter how pitiful they begin to look or how many passers-by become strangulated by their hanging presence. This also means that those neighbors who have already decided they were going to do this starting last year are free to continue to do so.
I’m torn about this absence of a rule requiring holiday displays to be removed after a certain period of time. On the other hand, though, it presents a lunatic such as me plenty of room to make the city of Springdale regret this oversight. Who among us doesn’t want to see all the reindeer and a 9-foot Santa 365 days a year?
PS: I’m going to sneak over to a couple of houses and ADD lights to those they left up last year. I might even fix the string of lights a couple of houses down which shorts and arcs sparks across the guttering from time to time. It’s pretty at night, though, so maybe I won’t.
A quick, snarky note from a non-sports fan…
3 a.m. on a Monday morning. Two flats, damage to the driver side, bumper, taillight out, the car was running, and right turn signal was flashing. When they woke him up, his speech was slurred and he didn’t know where he was at.
At first, police thought he was Sean Spicer.
If that had been me, Johnson Police would have used my small intestine to tow me to the jail and then charged me with at least 5 misdemeanors.
Tiger didn’t hurt anyone, so they shouldn’t kick him too hard. On the other hand, he got into a car he obviously wasn’t able to drive safely and hit something. Unfortunately, he wasn’t driving anywhere near Congress.
I vote that we let him off with a warning and sentence him to WATCH five hundred hours of golf. He’ll be begging for mercy at that point.
PS: If you’ve never watched golf, it is exactly as bad as LISTENING to people talk about baseball, the earwax of sports.
A poem I wrote to verify whether people read the content.
Noted baseball historian Ralph Ettenmeyer notes that Mike Pence was a naturally-gifted player. His well-earned nickname: Dingbat
Schrödinger’s Rain: It’s raining cats OR dogs.
Misheard News of the Day: Tyson announced its first antibiotic-free chicken today. In other news, antibiotics will now be chicken-free.
“Evidently, I’m a little too fabulous. I got a ticket for (g)littering on the side of the road.” – X
Joke/ Satire? After my last Tyson chicken joke, Corporate wrote me, asking me to enumerate my frustrations with the company. #1: It’s not ethical that the food taste test division stole the smell of my old work boots as the inspiration for the flavor of their frozen chicken breasts. (In truth, this story is almost true but I’ll leave it to you to decide which part is technically an exaggeration.)
If people demand an answer when you don’t have one, here’s the best reply: “I don’t know, would you like me to go fill up at the Guess Station?” It works great when spoken, especially if screamed as a response or after ingesting hallucinogens.
I was asked to write a clever quip about human error. This isn’t supposed to be taken literally or as an endorsement of stupidity.
If I were a teacher, I would hate trying to explain “Do the right thing” in this world dominated by Trump and people like him.
For those who love those “Is your refrigerator running?” jokes, here’s a gift:
Call Tyson Corporate and ask…
“Do you have frozen chicken breasts?”
When you call, ask for Tina – she loves a good joke.
After my last Tyson chicken joke, Corporate wrote me, asking me to enumerate my frustrations with the company. #1: It’s not ethical that the food taste test division stole the smell of my old work boots as the inspiration for the flavor of their frozen chicken breasts. (In truth, this story is almost true but I’ll leave it to you to decide which part is technically an exaggeration.)
On health care: “Single Payer doesn’t have a Single Prayer.”
Keeping nude photos is a bad idea. But if you do, it seems like you should store them on a ‘flash’ drive.
The restaurant review said that the place was very intimate. I’d say so. The waiter put his tongue in my ear while listing all the house specials.
Word of the Day: Doppelgänger – noun; a look-alike or counterpart to another person.
We decided not to burn books – we are burning Facebooks instead because we’ve had enough of people sharing what they find meaningful with other people.
Weird how people proudly shout, “Death from above.” No kidding. Where else is it going to come from? Are we filming the movie “Tremors?”
Have you seen the new walking paths designed for poets? They are haiku-ing trails.
Life is long, but really long if you’ve got gas in public.
I am not saying he is a bad cook- but the only thing he could make is an asserole.
The accounting team from Lewis and Smith Inc. are suing. They bought a package from the tour company to go witness the eclipse but when they arrived it turned out to be a subtotal eclipse instead.
Warning: double pun/ foreign phrase combination:
At work there is a beautiful little spillway cavern, with a bubbling spring exiting the opening. When there is a breeze along the lower level it is a divine place.
Lately though, a security guard has been placing himself nearby and prohibiting entry to non-employees and anyone whose face he dislikes.
As I take break nearby sometimes, I tend to hear his admonitions to some of the interlopers.
Today he was getting verbally chastised by an older white guy. “Give me one good reason I’m not allowed over here!” Mr. White Guy shouted at the surprised guard.
I stood up so that the guard could see me. I held up a hand to indicate that I’d like to answer for him. The guard nodded his assent.
“Sir,” I said, loudly.
“The reason you’re not allowed here is because you are a ‘persona non grotto.’ ”
And I laughed.
Did you know that our current Attorney General’s real name is Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III? He answers to the name “Jeff,” given that his preferred name of “Cracker” was taken. He’s so white that he doesn’t need to put on a hood for the firelit meetings.