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.
Have you ever heard of Big Week?
No, it is not the aerial bombing of the 1940s.
And no, it is not the Biggest Losers counterpart – Smallest Winner.
Where I am from, Big Week is Rodeo week. It is held every year toward the end of July and is supposedly the largest on the west coast.
Now, I may have redneck tendencies, but I am no cowboy. Disney Sing-A-Long has contrived a list of requirements one has to ascertain to be designated a cowboy. A cowboy needs a horse, a hat, a pair of fancy boots, a set of shiny spurs, and a rope-o-o-o if he wants to be a cowboy. Let me calculate my haul of currently owned items…Carry the two, subtract the W, add pie, pumpkin preferably…Zero. That suggests my attire for such an event is exiguous in comparison to fellow attendees. I end up looking like a Hipster-Wannabe-Cowboy with a plaid shirt, skinny-FIT jeans (there is a difference), and some shoes. Meanwhile, I see men and women dressing to the nines in their western wardrobe. I’ve always wondered, wow, for a country guy (or girl) they sure look spiffy. I’ve wondered how they have kept their clothes so crisp and immaculate. I’ve come to the conclusion it is because they only wear the shit once a year. Now, my town has its fair share of rednecks, but we are more infamously known for our gang affairs. Local law enforcement is just not well versed in managing snapping Broadway gangsters. One would reckon that Jazz Hands 101 be a prerequisite to graduate the Police Academy. Regardless, fact of the matter is this town does not have that many country people. We do have a lot of pretenders. And none are The Great.
I know this to be a fact. I have friends who participate in these rodeo festivities. Friends who are only cowboys for 168 hours. While not the same amount of hours, I liken it to how long it felt when watching James Franco’s movie. It appears to be a lengthy carving of time, but put in perspective with the 8766 hours in a year, it’s rather brief. It does not prevent them from embodying their western clothes and jumping up on that “high horse.” Pun(s) intended. For one week they think they are some badass cowboy. Until I remind them, “You work at Carls Jr., you don’t listen to country music, and you’ve never even ridden a horse. The closest you’ve come to western is selling me a Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger. Now, which window do I pull up to? The second? Why do you have two windows, but only occupy one? I want to know what’s behind window number one.” Okay, I got carried away with that fabricated conversation, but the drift has been got.
There are exceptions to this rule. Women. I do not care if you have never seen the stars above the city glow. If you want to slap on some daisy dukes, roll up your t-shirt, and rock some boots you go right ahead and do so. There are so many cheap jokes here, I’m talking five cent spittoon cigars worth, but I will take the high road, the one that leads off into the sunset. In a car.
I created this blog to become famous.
I have been blogging for a year and a half.
I’m like Zach Stone. Well, not entirely. I’m not famous, but I’m not canceled. Meaning I have not eighty-sixed my aspiration. I have instead taken to WordPress to ask for some advice.
- Should I create a Facebook page for my blog?
I have analyzed the layout of several different blogs. Some have chosen to adopt the sociality offered by a Blog Facebook page. Others have crossed the desert plain and pick up their viewers mano a mano. I’ve done a mixture of both. I post my blogs on my personal Facebook and I frequent other blogs to spread the Good Will-you come and check out my blog. That way, it is the, “I scratch your back, you give me a foot massage,” ordeal. So far I have come across very few foot massagers. I tell them to not mind the calluses on the heel; that it adds character, but to no avail. I suppose I am curious as to how illustriously a Blog Facebook page contributes to the traffic of a blog?
- Does Stumbleupon draw a crowd?
This is not a new tactic for me. I have posted my blogs on Stumbleupon to help speed the traffic of my blog. Last year, it worked well. In every circumstance, I was gaining fifteen to twenty more views from Stumbleupon. I think they are on to my self-promotion though. Since 2013, I have probably had anywhere from fifteen to twenty views from Stumbleupon altogether. I know these Stumbleupon views do not bestow a consistent fan base, but they look oh-so-pretty on the bar chart. Just ask the ladies, or men. Do they want a 10-15 view length bar? Or do they way a 100-200 view length bar? Cosmetics are important in the world of blogging. I am curious as to what other people’s strategy is for approaching Stumbleupon. Have you found it worth your while or has it wiled away your worth?
- Should I change my blog name?
The name Titillating Thoughts has done me well during my blogging lifespan, but perhaps it’s time to give it a stronger pulse. I want my blogs pulse to relate to, “I’m overweight and I just ran twenty minutes, I may die right now.” That’s a powerful, erratic pulse. The methods in which to achieve this would be to come up an easily searchable, catchy name that relates to my posts. My honest thoughts on this are:
- Hilarity Ensues OR The Ensuing Hilarity OR Am I Funny Yet?
- The Funny Pseudologist OR A Silly Pseudologist OR The Honest Pseudologist
- The Face of Facetious OR The Face in Facetious
Those are some of my top contenders at this point in time. I am unsure if it is possible to keep this blog, but change the name, but if so, those are some possibilities. What say you?
- Is buying a domain name worth it?
Is it…Is it really?
As a young tike, I remember watching The Simpsons. I was always intrigued when Homer would stroll into Moe’s Tavern and order a beer. Moe would grab an icy mug and fill it up with Homer’s favorite Duff beer. The head of the beer flowing over the rim of the mug; exuding a succulent presentation. It always made Homer content to be downing the cold beverage. The foamy goodness of the beer head reminded me of the sugary texture of cotton candy (or “fairy floss” if you are from down under). I yearned for an opportunity to drown my taste buds in it. When the day arrived on my, ahem, TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY, ahem, I ordered a Newcastle Brown Ale at a local pub. The beer had a good head on it, and all my childhood memories of the Simpsons flooded my mind. I lifted the glass to my lips, feeling the condensation of the glass on the palm of my hand and the droplets of fizzled beer splashing about. I tilted my head back and took a big gulp.
Yucky. Yeah, men say yucky.
My dream fell into ruins. It turns out that receiving head is not superlative in all scenarios. In fact, beer head is actually the worst part of a beer. Do I blame The Simpsons for such a travesty? No. I blame A&W Root Beer. The frothy foam that I indulged in as a child did not transcend with the alcoholic beverage. Damn you A&W…But four or five more of these Newcastles and I’ll forgive you.
This may be more common than not. I build up an experience in my mind and when it does not translate into reality, disappointment ensues. To list a few of my other disappointing sights to mouth translations:
- Winnie the Pooh’s “Hunny” vs. Honey
When I was five or six, I use to go over to my cousins house and play in the backyard. There was a shelf attached to one of the fences in the backyard, and on it rested a pot quite similar to that of Winnie the Pooh’s. I remember we tried a bunch of acrobatic circus-foolery in order to achieve the pot. After a few years went by, our height improved, our acrobatics did not, but we were able to reach the “Hunny” pot. We opened it up, and it was just an unused planter pot. I mean, we should have known. It didn’t say “Hunny”, and what were we expecting to find from a pot that had been left outside for two to three years to brace the weather? I don’t know. What I do know, is that when I finally did get a good look at honey, it looked nothing like the scrumpdeliciousness that Winnie the Pooh coveted. I felt like Eeyore; hope for the world had ceased to be.
- Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Pizza vs. Pizza
Okay. I do not have much to say on this one. Pizza is pizza, and it is exquisite, but I am still searching for the pizza that pranced around in my dreams. I imagine someone who makes that sloppy-cheesy-yums-the-word pizza, could open up a pizza store called “Cowabunga!” I’d go there…frequently.
- Barney Birthday Cake vs. Cake
This one is the most obscure of all the ones mentioned. I use to own a videotape of Barney’s birthday. It was a colorful VHS tape. Purple or orange…It doesn’t matter. What matters, is that they made a layered cake on the video. While, I know the kids did not smooth it out to perfection as it was shown in the video, the cake still looked delicious. Since then, I have seen better cakes. Cake Boss anyone? Buddy is amazing. But still…The the cake in that video is burned into my head and was another item that I searched for as a child.
I can’t be the only one who would love a Simpson beer and Ninja turtle pizza followed by a Barney cake with “Hunny” filling for dessert.
Do you have food or other items that you are still searching for from your favorite shows?
On Friday, I received some exciting news.
I have been offered a teaching position at a high school.
After believing that I would be dining in the soup kitchen, and working on my 300 line, “Tonight, we dine in Hell,” I will no longer need such devices. It is a fantastical sensation. To put down my hedge trimmers and no longer need to lock down my landscape position in front of Home Depot. It is a relief. Plus, I was not corralling the highest amount of praise for my Sonic the Hedgehog lawn design. I guess interest in Sonic died with Sega. I’d mow a Mario, but it is not in my drawing repertoire, in fact nothing else is. That, and it would most likely end in a racial depiction of an Italian with a crooked moustache. Nobody wants that.
By becoming a teacher, I receive a contract. It is a one year contract that dictates what I will be required to do. Teach, obviously.
I am treating it like I am an unrestricted free agent. People do not just happen across a gem like me, alright? The Alexandrite. Game time was fast approaching, and they realized they had a gap to fill in the roster. Enter me. I go in and sign this contract today. I have it all thought out. I’m taking my agent with me to negotiate a good deal.
Hint: I am the agent.
Hint #2: I’ll be accepting the first number they throw at me.
Also, like any good free agent, before I sign, I want to be courted too. I want to feel the love. In the teaching world, courted equates to someone holding the door open for you once. Secondly, I want a signing bonus. And by a signing bonus, I mean high fives throughout the office. Are low fives back in? Hugs, maybe? I’ll choose my targets wisely. Ladies…
In truth, I am excited. This is a great opportunity for me to begin the career of my choice. The past five years have come to fruition and I am now a full-pledged teacher.
Oorah! Or whatever the Marine equivalent is for teaching? Apple!…?
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 began this with the intent to write a relatively creative entry. This post was to be “Freshly Pressed” material. If only you could envision my vision I could envision you envisioning my vision…It would be a beautiful thing. Unfortunately, that idea has dissipated and I am left with a scattered strand of cranial matter. I have good reason for this mishap.
There are over one hundred and twenty thousand species of flies. Each genera or family is as annoying as the last. Am I being harsh by condemning these bugs to the title of annoying? No. When you have swatter specifically designated to handle flies, that should signify that something or someone needs an attitude change. I’m talking to you flies.
I do not mind that they land on my tasty treats. It is disgusting, but it is not going to prevent me from devouring that cupcake. While we are on the subject of cupcakes, does anyone else love cupcakes more than a slice of cake? What is it about cake in a cup that makes it more delectable than its sliced counterpart? I digress. It also does not bother me that they, quite fittingly, fly by ear canals and update me with the latest buzz. (That’s just a little fly humor.) It does not even bother me when they try to make sexual advances by crawling up my legs and caressing my arm hair. Each and every fly movement I have described has had an intended destination or purpose.
The most despicable trait a fly has is being an interruption to my peripheral vision. This is the fly that flies in oblong circles. What purpose does this fly serve? It has about a fourteen day life span, yet it will spend a significant portion of that circling the center of my room an in identical pattern. I know it will never land on me, it will never bother my food, but yet I find it to be the most disturbing type of fly.
After doing some extensive research (typing it into Google and choosing the first option that relates to my question), I have limited it down to three reasons why they do this. The first of which is mating protocol. They are sexing it up. They choose to do this in the center of the room because they are exhibitionist. They have twenty thousand one hundred and sixty minutes to live, they are going to do it up big. Circular exhibition insex. They also like reminding you of the fact that they are getting some and you are not. If this fly were in a bar, it would be the first bar-fly to get some. Bad joke. I’m full of them.
The second reason has to do with finding a perch or food. Now, I am unclear as to when they make their move. Is there fly code? Is there a certain time frame or circular motions they have to complete before being allowed to rest or eat? Or are the ones still flying the Caitlin Upton’s of the egg? Maybe they are just wanting to fly through life. If it is a perch they are looking for, the entire room is full of them. As for food, if you haven’t found it in four hundred rotations, it is not there.
The last reason is that they want to interrupt my thought process. Simply put, they see the twinkle of brilliance in my eye, just my left one, and they want to extinguish it. They saw that “Freshly Pressed” was only a circle away and they committed their life to preventing me from obtaining that award. This last reason is dipped in no scientific reasoning, but I believe it to be 100% accurate. Otherwise I have no excuse for my lackadaisical entry or why I have not been Freshly Pressed.
I have something I need to get off my chest.
I have a Pinterest account. There, I’ve said it. To alleviate any angst that my revelation may have evoked, I will put your minds at ease and announce that the account has not been accessed in some time. In fact, one could say that I have and I haven’t a Pinterest account. It’s the equivalent of someone stating that they HAVE a humorous blog, but the content is humorless (maybe it’s nothing like that). Regardless, that time is behind me; and it’s a good thing too. My Y chromosomes were beginning to question their existence.
But before I get too carried away with my overly built up hostility towards Pinterest, let me inform you on what it helped me accomplish.
Those who have been diligently reading my blog know that I have been attempting to read a minimum of one book per month. This is difficult when all aspects of life coalesce into a heaping pile of
shit sunshine and flowers. You all know what I am saying…Okay, so maybe not all. Anyhow, more reading equates to more books. And more books…Well let me create a competent diagram to help everyone better under the complexity of it all:
I have done the reading, I have accumulated the books, and now I need a bookshelf. That is where Pinterest enters. The site has some pretty awesome Do It Yourself (DIY) projects, and who doesn’t love some good DIY? I found one that turned cheap crates into nice decorative bookshelves. Due to my lack of space at the moment, I only awarded myself three crates. (For all those mathematician majors, or minors, you are correct in your calculation of only two crates pictured below. For those who are seeing three, I’ll have what you are having.)
Once I had the proper tools, I began the transformation. I popped open the can of stain and slathered it onto the crate until the proper pigmentation. My antecedent knowledge on the aforementioned process was nil. After one crate, I could have been a member of the Black Hands. You could have called me Gavrilo Princip. (A little Serbian humor for you.) This meant that gloves were like batteries; not included. From that point forward, I embraced the stain and decorated my bod with the war paint. In all fairness, the fumes were beginning to saturate the air and I was on cloud nine. I suppose I also underestimated the word stain, because for the next two days my chest was speckled with the stuff. I could have been handed off to the victors at the Brit Awards. Preferably Lana Del Rey. Anyhow, enough about that. Here are the results:
Future…but with actual books.
There are only two positives that come from Valentine’s Day.
The first being Brach’s little candy hearts. I love those chalk candies. I pop them like House pops pills. (Bummer. This reminds me of the fact that House M.D is over and all my analogies involving that subject matter will soon be antiquated.) I devour those candy hearts like they are going out of style…Wait a second…This is, however, excellent news for my future spouse. I have designed a plan and all she will have to do to make me happy is to give me the “stuff”. A few pounds will suffice. As for this year, I have to buy it for myself on the Black Market. It is a little liquor store around the way, “Black’s Market and Deli;” delicious sandwiches.
The second is chocolate. This is not as luxurious of an item because its availability does not pertain to a specific duration of time. You may not be able to find exquisitely petite red boxes that scream “I’m getting lucky tonight!” or heart shaped chocolates, but chocolate is nevertheless present during every waking moment of one’s existence. Still, Valentine’s Day gives us, or shall I say me, the excuse to indulge. I put on my fat boy pants and go to town on that box. Nom-nom-nom-nom.
Which brings me to the point of all this. Why is it when you buy a Valentine’s box or classic See’s Candy assortment box that there is only ever one delicious piece of chocolate? And you know the piece I am talking about. The highly coveted caramel. The battle for that caramel piece gets intense too. Once that lid is lifted and the chocolates are exposed, it’s game time. The winner is that lucky sonofa%$#$# that get’s the golden egg: the chocolate caramel.
Here is how it goes down: I start this race by biting into one. Coconut? Flippin’ coconut? Why? Did I ask for an assortment of God’s most inadequate creations? Am I going to unearth Justin Bieber in the next one? This is horrible. I try a second chocolate. Nuts. If there is one way to quickly ruin a good thing it is by adding nuts to food products. Judging by past female reaction, that may be a quick way to ruin all good things. I bite the third chocolate. Some kind of dark yellow cream. Not horrible, and I’ll eat the entire chocolate, but by God I have to get back down to brass tacks and find that caramel. And it is usually in, on, or around this time that someone walks by and grabs a chocolate, and wouldn’t you know it, it is the caramel. It is upsetting. Not because I did not get the chocolate, I can live with that, but that they did not put in time for that caramel.
When it comes down to it, Forest Gump was right. Life is a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get…in a box of chocolates. People have to experience the bad ones to know the true value of the good. Or they could just buy the box that states what each chocolate is, but that would negate this whole post. And that, my friends, is no Bolshevik.