Buffalo with Extra Buffalo

MUTANT FOOD ALERT.

Guys.

This past Sunday, my sweet Drummer Boy went grocery shopping with me. It was a big deal, because this past Sunday I was feeling quite low, and I didn't want him to see me that way, and also I didn't want to go shopping, even though I really needed to buy breakfast and lunch foods for Precocious Daughter.

He very sweetly, and gently, and kindly convinced me to let him visit, and help me shop. I don't know how he does this, and more importantly, I don't know why he does this. Drummer Boy is so out of my league, you guys.

Anyway, we had fun shopping together, because we always do. And at one point, he added a box of Spicy Buffalo Wheat Thins to my cart.

I like Wheat Thins. I like buffalo (the animal
and the spice). Win.

Back at my place, he made me a pizza. I wasn't feeling well, so he made me a pizza. I can't even, but there you go. While he cooked, we snacked on Spicy Buffalo Wheat Thins. And they were yummy.

At one point, Drummer Boy found a mutant Thin.

See the difference?

On the right is a normal Wheat Thin. On the left is...a Wheat Thin with a rather inordinate amount of Spicy Buffalo seasoning piled upon it. Wow.

Drummer Boy nommed the excessively-seasoned cracker and declared it good.

Then he found more.

Hunka hunka salty buffalo powder.

I have no idea what was going on with Nabisco quality control the day this particular box of Wheat Thins rolled off the production line. How did we acquire three Wheat Thins that were not simply coated, but glob-a-blobbed with flavored coating mix? I don't know.

But it was fun. You know, like finding a triple-stuf Oreo or an extra hot wing in your order. Bonus junk food for the win!

Then today, I retrieved the box of Wheat Thins from my pantry (because somehow we managed to not devour the entire box on Sunday), and I pulled out this:

What is happening?

In case you can't tell, this is a solid block of buffalo seasoning the size of a chicken nugget, with not a Wheat Thin in sight. I estimate that this nugget contains approximately 18 times the recommended daily allowance of sodium, as well as more artificial spicy flavor than you can shake a large plains mammal at. At which you can shake...never mind.

I don't know what to do with this monster. The part of me that likes to get drunk and harass random Twitter users wants to put this bad boy in my mouth and endure the mouth-burning, eye-watering consequences.

But the part of me that cries over pictures of orphaned otters can't imagine subjecting myself to such unhealthy torture.

As if you can even deal with this.

So I'm turning to you, Drunkards. What should I do?

Do I eat this disgusting, wonderful prize?

Or do I throw it in the trash and thank my Maker that I was able to resist poisoning my body with such an abomination?

Please weigh in. In the meantime, the Buffalo Nugget will remain in my pantry, awaiting its fate.

By the way, I'll send it to you if you decide your fate is to consume an ounce of salt and artificial flavor.

Just saying.

This Is Confessional. Please Respond with Approbation.

Hi, Drunkards.

It's been a rough week.

As illustrated by this humorous meme.

I
'm not going to sugar-coat it. On Wednesday, I prepared for the third Presidential debate by drinking heavily. More heavily than usual. I'm not sure why. Maybe I thought it would enhance my satirical skills for live-tweeting the proceedings (which it didn't because I ended up too drunk to tweet at all). Maybe I was stressed because Drummer Boy planned to join me that evening, which is a rare midweek treat. Maybe I'm just a mess.

Me. It goes to me.

But here's the thing. Wednesday night, while I was drinking and getting ready for the debate and acting like an idiot in front of Drummer Boy, Precocious Daughter was volunteering at a nearby middle school. She volunteers because she earns community service points for National Honor Society, but also because she's just a great kid who loves to help out when she can. The middle school is about a five-minute drive from our home. But I would be making that five-minute drive to pick her up...under the influence. Drunk. Wasted.

Drummer Boy was appalled. But he didn't stop me. Because he was appalled.

You guys, I stepped into a car while well over the legal limit to pick up my only child from a school where she was doing volunteer work. 

Feel free to be outraged and disgusted. You are not alone.

PDaughter and I got home safely. I ended up throwing Drummer Boy out of my apartment because...reasons? Apparently I got very bitchy and verbally abusive. Fact is, I don't remember any of it.

But the next morning, I saw he had written me an e-mail at 3 a.m. It was the hardest, saddest thing I've ever had to read. I almost didn't read it at all, although I ended up returning to it several times over the next couple of days.

Drummer Boy showed me tough love, you guys.

He broke my heart and shamed me and made me cry.

I'm not going to spill his private business here. But he has lived through his own substance abuse issues. And the thought that he very easily might not be here but for luck and his own mighty strength...it brought me up really fucking short.

And the thought that he might give up on me, as he strongly hinted he might do after my latest shenanigans, well, that just slapped me in the face.

Drummer Boy and I are still together, you guys. He is the love of my life, my rock, my friend.

And I will never put my child in danger just to feed my blog.

And I will be the role model I need to be for PDaughter, and the person I know I can be to myself.

Do I promise to never touch demon alcohol again?

Well, no. I can't make that promise.

Just being honest.

But can I put the two most important people in my life above vodka?

Oh fuck yes.

They are everything to me. Vodka is just a crutch for my weaknesses.

It doesn't even outrank this pissant little blog. You guys - my handful of loyal friends and readers - you mean so much to me. I want to keep writing what I can to give you what pleasure I can.

I want to write that goddamn book I keep talking about.

I want to live happily ever after.

Feel free to tell me I'm an idiot for endangering my life and my relationships. I need to hear it.

I promise to respond with monkeys and politics and whatever.

Thank you, my Drunkards.

I love you all.

Here's a Terrible Childhood Memory

As I've said many times in this space, I love my mom.

She put up with a lot.

My mom taught me so many things. She taught me to read, to cook, to do cross-stitch, to be goofy and to be strong. And she unintentionally taught me certain things that I didn't want to repeat with my own child.

Listen up: All good mothers make mistakes so that their children will grow up to be even better parents than they were.

Pro tip: Try to avoid driving your kids
into therapy. Other than that, it's OK
not to be perfect.

My mom taught me that the more creative you get to try to stretch your food budget, the more likely you are to foist truly terrible meals upon your family.

Tonight's case in point: Texas hash.

I've already devoted an entire post to Polish chop suey. This is a concoction of kluski noodles, Polish sausage, cream of mushroom soup, and demon bile that my mom periodically set upon the dinner table when I was growing up. It had the advantage of being cheap to make for a family and...just kidding, it had no other advantages, apart from enabling me to be a skinny kid until puberty introduced me to the concept of binge eating.

Behold, the genesis of all my eating disorders.

But Polish chop suey was by no means the only repugnant dish my mother (whom I love very, very much) prepared for her family.

There was also Texas hash.

Not - I repeat, not - hashish.

Years before my family moved from Wisconsin to Texas, my mom made us Texas hash.

It was a casserole, of course. It was made from inexpensive ingredients, yes. It fed all five of us, probably with leftovers, check.

It was fricking vile.

As I recall, it was made with ground beef, rice, big goddamn slices of onion, and like tomatoes or tomato paste or some shit.

And served in this. Exactly this.

Lord, how I hated Texas hash. HATED it. Loved my mom, loved that we had dinner together every night. HATED this shit. It tasted like tomatoes (hate), onions (hate), and desperation (oh yeah, hate). On Texas hash nights, I went to bed hungry, or else prayed that it was a popcorn night so that I could fill my belly.

I have never had to feed a family of five on a single income during a decade of high inflation. So I am not judging my wonderful mother for making Texas hash, which had the advantages of being cheap, filling, and easily re-heatable.

But I will let ISIL take over America before I voluntarily eat that shit again.

Got it?

OK.

Recipe here if you're a freaking sadomasochist.

I love my mom. I hate Texas hash.

Remember that.

Don't Tell the Zombies About Lipitor

I don't have anything to write about tonight. So instead I'll give you all some good news:

Zombies are not a long-term threat to society.

They are, as a race (species? religion? socioeconomic group?), extremely prone to heart disease, heart attacks, and strokes.

Because it turns out their dietary staple - say it with me, braaaaaiiiiiinnnnnssss - is way high in cholesterol.

How high? Check this out:

That milk doesn't help.

That's right, one 5.5-ounce can of brains has 1170% of the recommended daily allowance of cholesterol. To put it in layman's terms, that is a shit-ton of cholesterol.

Not only that, but the average adult human brain weighs about three pounds. So by eating just one brain, a zombie attacker is ingesting... (does math) ... about 12 globlillion times a healthy amount of cholesterol.

And you know those zombies can't eat just one.

So yeah, I think we can all relax, because those lurching, staring, brain-slurping zombie assholes are like an army of Elvises destined to keel over on the toilet from an after-lifetime of poor dietary choices.

Their taste in beer isn't doing them any favors, either.

On the other hand, there is a surprising amount of Vitamin C to be found in brains. Which is why, although they are rotting and fetid and quite ungraceful, you rarely see a zombie with a cold.

Everybody stock up on canned brains, or slow neighborhood children. Either way, this will all blow over soon.

The Hagfish, Part 2

Ah, the hagfish.

Mysterious phallic horror of the deep.

Hagfish have remained basically unchanged for 300 million years, which proves they simply don't know how to let go of a look that isn't working.

A similar phenomenon can be observed
in some parts of North Dallas.

These fascinating creatures, while outwardly disgusting, are actually disgusting all the way through. There is very little about the hagfish that doesn't make you go hmmmm, or more to the point, WTF. In fact, there is much we don't know about the hagfish, and nearly everything we do know sounds made up.

Most of them are Sagittarians, for example.

Seriously, I could list 10 facts about hagfish, some real and some bullshit, and I'll bet you couldn't tell which is which.

Hey, I think I just stumbled upon a premise.

Answers are below - no peeking. Ready? Go.

Ten Facts (Some of Which Are Utter Lies) About the Humble Hagfish

1. Hagfish have one eye that can't see and one nostril that can't breathe.

2. Hagfish secrete a fibrous slime that scientists believe can be made into a fabric resembling nylon.

Delightful.

3. Speaking of slime, the hagfish is able to avoid being suffocated by its own secretions by tying itself in a knot and scraping them off its body.

4. Hagfish will attempt to mate with any creature that resembles it, including lampreys (to which the hagfish is related), eels (to which it is not), and human penises.

5. Hagfish sex organs lack transportation, which is a fancy way of saying they don't have a penis or a vagina. Instead, they release their gametes through their digestive system, i.e., they come through their ass.

6. Hagfish skin makes a durable leather and is used to make wallets and purses. Spoiler alert: If you've ever owned anything made of eelskin, it's actually hagfish hide.

7. The hagfish is the only known animal that has a skull but no spine.

Also, he's got a dance that ain't got no steps.
(Drawing by Melinae_Ratel)

8. Hagfish can go months without eating, but when the opportunity presents itself, they will binge like sorority girls after rush week.

9. In some parts of Korea, hagfish slime is used like egg whites in cooking. The slime is "harvested" by irritating the hagfish until it starts sliming.

10. Hagfish have four hearts. For this reason, they nearly always take trump when playing bridge.

Answers:
Number 4 is the only one I made up. For real. Well, the part of number 10 about playing bridge, too. I really don't know anything about their card-playing prowess.

Once again, thanks to Bill the Butcher for encouraging me to explore the revolting world of the hagfish. I think I'll stick to fluffy squirrels other creatures that don't come through their ass. Jeez.

The Hagfish, Part 1

Beloved Drunkard Bill the Butcher has requested that I write about the hagfish.

Bill's a dentist in a developing nation and a political cartoonist.
We're practically twins.

Since I would cross the highest desert and swim the widest mountain for Bill, I conducted some of the meticulous research that is the hallmark of this blog.

Monkeys is smarts. Got it.

Here's what I found out: Hagfish are disgusting.

Jesus fucking Christ on a flaming sidecar.

I'm deeply disturbed.

Deeply, deeply disturbed.

I should have known Bill would be interested in something with rows of horrifying teeth.

I need to take a break. I'll write more about the hagfish later.

Damn, Bill.

Bad, Bad Facebook Sidebar. Bad.

Don't read this if you don't like words like "crusty" and "chuckhole."

This was on my Facebook sidebar the other day, along with ads for cheap shoes and adorable kittens:

I gave it a glance. And then I took a closer look. And then I thought to myself: WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THAT PICTURE?

Is that image SUPPOSED to look like some skanky chick's crusty party-hole? That's exactly what it looks like to me. I don't even know for sure what that would look like, except that it would look just like that. How disgusting. Why would I even think that? Why would anybody else think that, and then put it on a Facebook ad for a goddamn Paleo diet?

Why would someone want me to look at what is probably an extreme closeup of the bottom of a tomato or a red bell pepper, but then misconstrue it as resembling (probably) the nasty dirty lady bits of old Aunt Milly, whose hygiene really suffered when dementia kicked in? 

Why does Facebook think I have the slightest interest in learning more about a goddamn Paleo diet anyway?

Zuckerberg, your algorithms are fucked up. I like Little Debbie Swiss Rolls and burritos. I don't want to eat the way the cavemen did. Because they died when they were 30 and then the whole damn lot of them went extinct. And I don't want to think about what the cavewomen's primitive chuckhole must have looked like from squatting on the filthy ground without clean cotton panties to protect it.

I have enough problems without worrying that, unless I switch to a diet of organic grapes and corncobs, my loving cup is going to scab over and look like a diseased tomato. And also tummy fat. Always with the tummy fat. It makes me long for the good old days when all we had to worry about was The Bomb.

Not pictured: Giving a shit about love handles.

Listen up, Facebook. I don't want to play Candy Crush, I don't want to meet Christian singles, and I don't want to look at pictures that make my warped mind think it's looking at big dirty vajayjays.

Keep giving me more of that Grumpy Cat, though. She's awesome.

Grumpy Cat hates you.

Golly.