I have been glancing at my blog lately and noticed that the content has gone superfluously stale. I considered adding fresh content to make people content, but the stale has been STALEBLE. Buh-dun-dun. I have such a good thing going with what has been produced in the last few months, I cannot bring myself to change course. So I won’t.
Am I the only one who likes stale food?
Occasionally I get in the mood for popcorn. If you know me, you know that popcorn is not going to be popped into these chops except on a situational basis. That situation lends itself to me popping popcorn, opening the bag, and letting it succumb to the nature of air. Yes, that is right. I will wait for popcorn to go stale. I will leave that buttery bag on the counter and then return to its kernel goodness a day later. Unfortunately, the market for stale popcorn is none. It is a zilch-niche. Which is probably also the last name of a Polish man who is unrelated to popcorn and this conversation in every way but one.
Popcorn isn’t the only substance that I prefer stale. Ever listen to Doug E. Stale, that guys got jams for days. They’re continuous, monotonous, and quite honestly overused riffs and beats, but if that’s your bag then let me fill it with goodies.
Tortilla chips. Expose that bag of Tostitos to the air and they are so much more enjoyable. The crisp crunch is overrated. Let your mouth take a journey on a nice cushioned hay-stale ride.
Rice cakes. It disappoints me to bite into a fresh rice cake. Sometimes I visit store and poke holes in the bags just so I know that when I come back later to purchase them, they will be at an edible state. Some say not to tamper with food. Sheesh, so sorry for improving the product.
Cheetos (Puff variety). These do not last long regardless, so it is difficult to obtain stale cheetos, but on the rare occasions that I do they are scrumdeliciouso!
There is a plethora of items that are better stale, but there is one item that I am assiduously against.
I had a bag of peanuts once and was not privy to the fact that they have a maturation date. When I cracked open then shell and ate the peanuts I was awakened to the idea that not everything tastes good stale. It was like eating a rubber ball, but without the fun of being able play with it and have it bounce in some insidiously wrong direction.
Why don’t bouncy balls ever bounce your way? It’s like they are programmed to find crevices and escape your grasp, therefore forcing you to buy a new rubber ball. Aw. Nice strategy bouncy ball makers.
Nevertheless the point being in this tango of tangents is that stale can fail, but it often prevails.
And in the words of Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that.
I’ve been in pain the past couple days. It started on Tuesday. I was eating tater-tots. I do not care if you are four or eighty-three; tater tots are magnificent. They are like the french fries east coast cousin who is too hood for fast food. Anyway, I had just excavated a handful from the pan of sizzles upon which they rested. I took one of the golden brown potato marshmallows and tossed it back. Figurative tears began to stroll down my cheeks. (Us real men are not criers; we’re BAWLERS. Oh…wrong type of ballin’.) They were tater-HOTs. I refrained from burning the roof of my mouth by quickly gulping it down my throat. There was no spitting it out; I was already committed to the feud. Upon me doing so, the burning sensation followed. It felt like Courtney Love was parading around my esophagus, it was a HOT mess. When the tater tot finally settled in the pit of my stomach, I knew irrefutable damage had been done. Unlike a rough whiskey, I had literally burned my throat. Hence the title: Third-Degree Thursday.
If I was a prostitute, my oral presentation would be shot shot shot shot shot shot; everybody! It hurts to swallow, and I may have blistered the lining. This is a newfound phenomena for me, but it will not be forgotten. Well, that is until the pain goes away.
Is that not curious? We have all eaten something well before it has reached an edible temperature. Some of us may have taken a bite, achieved that conclusion, and continued to engulf the food. We have all suffered the mouth burns, maybe some of us with lip burns, but that’s unrelated. The fact of the matter is, we are creatures of habit. A hot cookie is a tasty cookie. I’m not waiting for it to harden like my heart. Bagel bites need to be eaten straight out of the microwave. I do not have five spare minutes to blow on them like a chump. That’s why I am using the microwave. (Note: That’s not really why I am using the microwave. I am just a horrible cook, and processed bagel bites in the microwave is the salient option.)
I guess what I am really advocating is for people to stay away from burning sensations. Wear a condom.
That’s all wrong.
Stay away from hot food, keep it above the throat. Otherwise your esophagus will say esofuckthis.
Last night I was in one of those craving-the-unknown phases. The type that makes me search my cupboards frantically. Opening cupboards four or five times, hoping that it has Indian in the Cupboard-like qualities. I gazed upon the shelves contents. A partially opened saltine cracker package (but if I am going to eat saltines, I’m going to want some soup. Gawd, my workload just increased!), a half eaten bag of licorice (that I am not desperate enough to eat), a box of corn muffin mix (I buy this stuff because I love me some corn muffins, but I NEVER use it), and two cans of tuna. I closed the cupboard, paced around the kitchen for five minutes. I looked in the fridge eying the milk and the big bag of cherries (There is a poor joke to be made here, but I’m not going to POP one off). I shut the fridge and opened the freezer. Sometimes I produce a little beat when I open the fridge and freezer doors. Opening and closing; opening and closing. Breaking out in song. “I can’t stop this feeling! Deep inside of me. Girl, you just don’t realize that I’m hungry!” It was one cool beat, but that could have just been the fridge and freezer. After, I begrudgingly dragged myself back over to my cupboard. Nothing new, but at this point anxiety sinks in. I grabbed a piece of old licorice, knowing good and well that it was going to take me an hour to chew. (Is it just me, or is rope licorice significantly better than the straw type? They use to sell bags of that stuff, now you have to buy the family pack and it comes with the Darth Vader black licorice. And if you like black licorice, you have no soul or no taste buds. One of the two. A ginger? Maybe both.) As I stand their tugging on the licorice like I am a dog trying to tear apart a rope, I come to terms with the fact that my cupboard is not magical, nor do I possess any oogaly-koboogaly powers. (And yes, that is a word in the Webster Dictonary. It means: “Shut fuck up…please.” Niceties always help.)
This hunger proves to be hazardous to one’s health. I cannot go out to the store because I lack the insight into what I want to chew on. And it is a known precaution that those who have munchinitus should not go shopping because you will end up with twelve loaves of every variation of bread, and one package of Mr. Mayer. While bologna may be on a friendly first name basis with many, I prefer to keep my relationship professional. Let me remind you that this is not munchinitus that is onset by a secret blend of herbs and spices. That particular type of hunger is easily solved by the first edible source you see. No, in this case, those twelve loaves of bread are bought because who knows which one will curb that hunger, scratch that itch, or park that car.
I’m getting off topic. I did not go to the store. Instead I paced around for another fifteen minutes, making the rounds, singing, doing random finger pointing guns at cups and eating utensils, silently complaining. There is no need for verbal complaints in the presence of inanimate objects. Unless you are Dor from Xanth, in which case, AMAZING. I’d finally be able to determine if certain people were truly dumb as a rock, or if was doing a disservice to the rock, and people are in fact dumber. BUT, there was no inanimate whisperer. I had to make do with what was present.
I had a can of tuna.
Oh, you expected a riveting resolution? Let me try again. Only because I am eager to please.
I had a can of tuna AND then I was abducted by aliens.
I sit. And by sit, I mean lay down on my bed. I always do my best work in bed. I begin preparing myself for the writing task ahead of me. What will be the focus of my post? What topic will I hack the normalcy out of?
And that is where it stops.
I’ve realized something important about myself from my writing methodology. I am a wannabe loner. And by this I mean I want to establish an idea and catechize it alone, but I do not. My process is a little different.
Here is how it works: I prod the kitchen of my mind and find the correct ingredients to prepare my idea. This is difficult to do. Imagine being in a five star restaurant’s kitchen. Imagine all those rare succulent delicacies and piquant seasonings. The all too ample amount of the finest cookery spread throughout the islands, counters, and cupboards. Just imagine. Now times that by forty-two; the answer to life, universe, and everything; and you have the innards of my minds kitchen. May I remind you, this is just the kitchen. Once the required ingredients are obtained, I make dough. Yes, flour and water. When the mixture has accumulated into a solid mass, I make magic happen. I take that dough, the essence of my idea, and I do what any decent chef would do; I slap it. I slappa da dough! This is the most climacteric step in the entire ordeal.
This is where it goes from solo to a show yo.
In Mighty Morphin Power Ranger terms, this is where my Tyrannosaurus Dinozord joins forces and becomes the Megazord.
Or, in my kitchen analogy, it’s where I slap people in the face with floury dough. A much kneaded process. Hitting people with my idea both literally and figuratively allows my mind to churn. There feedback, albeit often irrelevant to the direction I take, aids me in flushing out that wondrous dough into a pizza masterpiece. Once this is done, I slather on the tomato sauce (glue of my story), overload it with cheese (the jokes), and sprinkle on some pepperonis (no symbolism, I just like pepperonis). And viola! A bost is porn.
While this blog is comprised of 93% of my own ideas, that 7% of others insight is a tremendous boost in making what is great, brilliant. I am not completely alone in my process. I can’t be. Hence, I am just a wannabe loner.
Every morning I wake up…That’s a lie. Let’s try again. The times I wake up and it is still morning, I can guarantee that my stomach will want to have a long conversation. I can never quite understand its mumbling idioms and its volume fluctuations. All I know is that when I eat, I silence the beast. Maybe the language of the stomach has a motley spectrum of phrases that all stem from, “FEED ME!”
People usually hate their stomachs because they have difficulty controlling their eating habits, they hate its appearance, or it gives them stomach aches; I hate mine for growling, nay, roaring. It can make any canine cower and whimper. It can make a thunderstorm appear mild in comparison. It can make a G6 sound like a G4 (Which means it is quiet. Almost like a TV channel nobody watches). I may not be as fly as a G6, but my stomach can be as loud as one.
It is an attentive alarm that keeps my food schedule on course. I have learned to pack snacks just to appease it throughout the day. There is nothing worse than being in a peaceful environment and having your stomach start acting a fool. This has happened on more than twenty-seven occasions. I have learned to battle the growls with stomach tightening techniques. I am not sure how effective this is, but I still make the attempt. I’m like a Jedi trying to work my mind tricks on the dark side of the force. Like a Qui-Gon Ginn taking on Darth Maul…It never ends well.
One time I was standing in line at a clothing store. My stomach began to act up. Everyone within its radius turned and gave me appalling stares. I wanted to growl in unison with my stomach. You know, get animalistic, but I did not. I really just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. When it was my turn, I placed my item on the counter. I was buying a cardigan. He totaled out my purchase and I swiped my card. I proceeded to believe my card transaction cleared when the cashier said, “Would you please just swipe your card again?” I responded, “Really?” He nodded. I thought, hm, if you insist. I picked up my cardigan and walked out. As I walked out I was tackled to the floor by the security (Mall Cops). But…the cashier said I could swipe my cardigan. My stomach made another growl. I received that same disgusted look. I said aloud, “You are making my stomach angry…And you won’t like it when its angry.”
End Note: Okay, so that last story is completely fabricated. I don’t own a cardigan. I just wanted to make the joke, but I needed to make it fit in the blog. It fell flat, I know. I will admit it, but I will not omit it.
Writing a blog everyday is easy. Trying to fill it with worthwhile content is a daunting task. It is an unneeded stress in my life, but a wanted one. It challenges my mental capacity by encouraging me to make note of my daily activities and convert them into the written word. Unfortunately, I am not always in that constant mindset and I forgot to remember what is commonly forgotten. In other words, I have no material for today. I should correct that. I have no new material for today. Instead I have little phrases I have made up over the past year and a few old ideas that I have refurbished. Without further ado, I present my phrases and ideas.
1) Girls with large breasts always complain about back problems. Does this mean that people who have back boobs complain about chest problems? I’m just curious. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I am not sure how that relates to us homo sapiens. Is it my fault the cat could not live up the stature of Curious George? It is weird, because I feel like the saying is trying to prevent us from being curious. It is almost as if it Taoism is seeking to reestablish itself in a modern day form. I say kill a cat, kill a kitten. Do what you have to do. Be curious.
2) I have been craving ice cream as of late. Ice cream is a delectable dish, but that is also the precise reason why it bothers me so. I hate dishes and the act of doing them. To liberate myself from the washing of dishes, I now eat ice cream from my belly button. The serving size is small, but you have not lived until you have tried Lint and Chip. Delicious.
3) The animal kingdom is full of unique animals. I have always been fascinated with the cheetah. They are the fastest land mammal and can travel upwards to seventy-five miles per hour. That is fast. I draw comparisons between the cheetah and a car. Imagine going seventy-five miles per hour in a car and hitting a tree. Did your imagination blank out? It should have, because you would be dead. Now, lets examine a cheetah running at seventy-five miles per hour speeds and taking a dive. Ouchie. If I had the ability to run up to seventy-five miles per hour, I would not. That seems highly dangerous. I caution cheetahs to do the same. I get it, you’re hungry, but slow down cheetah. Here, have a Cheeto.
That is all. I approbate this message.
When I die, it will not be because I lacked calcium. In fact, it may be an overdose on calcium. What I am trying to say is that I am a milk fiend. In the past couple of years it has become an even bigger component of my diet. There was a steady year that I would drink two gallons of milk by myself within a week and a half. I bought fat free and loved it. I would pour enormous glasses and guzzle it down. I did things the milky way.
Not long after, I became fixated on chocolate milk. I had always had a weak spot for it, but it became increasingly so during this year. I was bagel biting chocolate milk. It was chocolate milk in the morning, chocolate milk in the evening, chocolate milk at supper time. When milk is with chocolate I can drink chocolate milk anytime. And I did.
I am very particular about my milk. I will not drink it if it is within a day of its expiration date. Milk has deceiving qualities. They say to smell milk to check if is still fine, but milk smells funky all the time. So I will stick with the Pasteurized Milk Ordinance (PMO) and adhere strictly to their expiration date. When it comes to milk, homey don’t play that.
I have only tried cow milk, but I would like to be a connoisseur of all milk. I want to try sheep, goat, yaks, water buffalo, horses, reindeer, and camel milk. I am most interested in camel milk. I watched an episode of Dirty Jobs that observed a camel farm. Apparently it is very sweet milk. Also, who would not want to travel the desert with your own natural beverage fountain of actual palatable milk? There would be no soda fountain mirage on that journey.
You are all probably wondering, what about human milk? I have tried that too. I’ll splurge every so often and buy myself a gallon of it. I like to make muffins with it. My favorite: Booberry muffins.
Candy is littered all around me. To my right is a bag full of sweet sugary jelly beans. To my left is an assortment of mini-size Snickers and Peanut M&M’s. Ahead of me is a tin can brimmed to the top with chocolate wafers. So why is it that I have chosen to try and reinstate my healthy eating and work-out regime now?
Hell if I know. It just felt right to start today. Easter is over. No more scrumptious holiday food for a couple more months. No allergies this season (so far) to prevent me from properly executing my plan. Today was the day to implement a nutritious diet and a physical fitness routine that would whip this bod into shape.
Okay, so the real reason was I needed groceries. My shelves were bare. My refrigerator was reminiscent of one from a foreclosure. Meaning only expired or unwanted food remained. It was time to go grocery shopping.
I do most of my grocery expenditures at a store called Trader Joe’s. It is a great store with a solid selection to look at. Furthermore the patrons who inhabit the vicinity also offer a solid selection to look at (if you get my drift). In case you are unaware of the store, it prides itself on offering healthier options than the common grocery franchises. Or that is what I have read on labels and reviews. In actuality, I have limited education in the field of nutrition. I actually rely on certain people to assist me in my quest for better health. The problem with this is it usually ends up in delayed responses and I end up purchasing the wrong item. I chose flax-seed oil. I should have bought grounded. Peanut butter or almond butter? I chose peanut butter. That one I am okay with. Kombucha or no kombucha? I am thinking I might try kombucha again. Pomegranate is the supposed go-to flavor.
I have found there are other stymieing issues that come with healthy living. They may not be problematic to others, but they are detrimental to my progressive healthy ways. The most significant issue is whether I am able to cook what I buy. If there is one thing I am not, it is a chef. Anything not a microwave or oven befuddles me. (On a side note, I can press buttons like no other. Give me a microwave or an oven or a microwave oven and I make magic happen. Magic that puts Cris Angel to shame. Mindfreak that.) (Also, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be on the side of my upper torso. That way I would actually have a side note.) (Back to back to back parentheses. That is some heavy stuff.) I did take a culinary class in high school, but I was the designated dish washer. At the time the job appeared to be a voluntary move, but thinking back on it, maybe I was just that bad at cooking. Hey now, I have only started a few fires in my life. That is not too bad. Right?
Hopefully I marry a woman who enjoys cooking and makes ambrosial dishes. Maybe she can teach me her ways, because I am in desperate need of it.
Now you’ll have to excuse me, I have to go prepare my lunch. Tuna sandwich with a whey protein smoothie and flax-seed OIL.