poorman's quiche!

On account of my newly found talent for Depression Cooking, a friend of mine from my ye ole college years sent me a recipe for something he calls a "Tortizzilla." Now, I have no idea what this is supposed to be or look like once made, but it sounds like it might be delicious. Plus, this man once ordered a Dairy Queen Blizzard® using the words, "Pumpkin Pie with Nerds®!" so you know it must be good. Wait, that sounds foul...

Thankfully, this "Tortizzilla," as it were, has nothing to do with dairy products, therefore, it's probably a recipe to be trusted. And while normally, I would not publish something like this verbatim (or at all), I must mention that since my friend is super fabulously gay, he has a knack for adding flair to the English language, which almost makes up for the TOTAL LACK OF BEANS in his recipe. Not to mention, having been on the lam for the past week, I'm a bit short of material. Luckily, I'm the kind of innovative genius who can take a "Tortizzilla" and turn it into a "Poorman's Quiche," which makes for a cheap meal and a lovely blog post. Or maybe that's a lovely meal and a cheap blog post. Or a gnarly meal and a gnarly blog post. Whatever.

Anyway, allow me to present to you the "Tortizzilla!"

INGREDIENTS:

• 8 "eggs" [Ed. note: He uses a bourgeois version of eggs called "EggBeaters." Psshah!]
• 2 bell peppers, diced like a MOFO
• Half a bunch of deveined swiss chard (rainbow chard if you swang that way) [Ed. note: I have no idea what any of those high-fallutin' words mean.]
• 1 10" chorizo (NOT a euphemism, this time) [Ed. note: OH SNAP, GIRL!]
• 1 red onion; cut that bitch up into half-moons
• 3 yukon gold taters, sliced into 1/4" coins
• Some fresh rosemary needles [Ed. note: Uh, really?]
• 4 cloves garlic, smashed and decimated
• Olive oil
• 1.5 tsp pimentón (smoked paprika, WHAT!? that shit is SIIIIIICK) [Ed. note: Again, really?]
• Salt-n'-pepa
• 1 big ass castiron skillet [Ed. note: Now that's a Depression-era item I can get down with!]
• Some kind of cover (I used another pan) [Ed. note: Again, that's a hobo innovation I can get down with!]
• Oven @ 325
• Lots of wine for the drankin'.
  

DIRECTIONS:

• Fry up the onions until golden and add garlic near the end. Transfer to "Hold All My Sh*t" bowl.
• Oil pan; fry up pepper until soft; toss in chard and fry until beginning to char; toss all that shit into H.A.M.S. bowl.
• Oil pan, toss in taters; cover with other pan.
• DO NOT OIL PAN, fry up chorizo; drink lots of wine 'cause it's delicious; transfer chorizo to bowl.
• Whisk together "eggs," pimentón, s&p, pour into H.A.M.S. bowl, combine, then toss in skillet. Cook until edges start to brown.
• Toss that bitch in the oven for about 10-12 minutes. When it's SET, BROIL THAT MOTHERF*CKER until it's golden brown.
• Eat until you puke.
  

Wow. I must admit that sounds delicious, but you know what? It also sounds expensive! And so here are my suggestions to turn this super homosexual "Tortizzilla" into a super destitute "Poorman's Quiche."

INGREDIENTS:

• REAL eggs laid by skinny, poor chickens
• Beans
• Potatoes
• Beans
• Onion
• Pepper
• Beans
• Whatever spices you were able to busk for that day.
• Moonshine for drankin'.
  

DIRECTIONS:

• Chop up all that sh*t, throw it into a pan and cook over open dumpster fire.
• Eat until you puke.
• Drink moonshine until you puke again.
  

And voila!

So the choice is yours. Do you want to squander away your devaluing dollars on meals like the Tortizzilla? Or would you rather save up your hard-earned welfare to eventually buy a shiny new pennyfarthing by choking down the Poorman's Quiche instead? The answer seems pretty clear to me.

In the meantime, while you ruminate about the superiority of my Poorman's Quiche over The Man's Tortizzilla, allow me to alert you to a few online items that I missed during my time away from the Interbutt last week.

First off, my fascination with the elderly continued to grow when this video reached my Inbox. Is it wrong that I relate to the senior set more than I relate to most 20- and 30-somethings? NO! They ride dirrrrty just like me!



And while we're in a very hip-hop mood, let's take a good look at Ely Kim, who put together a little something called "Boombox," which features him shaking his buttocks to 100 different songs on 100 different days. I'm especially sweet on numbers 13, 17, 21, 43, 61, 74, 80, 96, and perhaps most impressively, the fact that what appears to be a giant mural of Yury Gargarin is in the backgrounds of 63 and 64 and, of course, his jacket in 36. Really, this is the kind of viral video that makes you (or at least me) wonder, "Goddamn! Now why didn't I think of that!?"



Lastly, Putin mania! This Web waste asks, "What will Putin become after he leaves politics?" After all, the page says, "He's a master of all trades!" Watch him wash clothes! Watch him sew! Watch him do needlepoint! Watch him give "cool haircuts, (for example, like Britney Spears')! Watch him deejay on the radio! Watch him bake buns! Watch him work a laser; give a massage; catch a squirrel; or simply relax. Seriously, is there anything Putin isn't qualified to do? (I mean, besides promote democracy and such.)

Finally, let's bring it all back home by looking inwards and this time I don't mean at my literal digestive track, but at DC's metaphorical digestive track. After getting confused by LOST last night and ignoring the program that comes on after it, I heard a snippet of "news" on ABC 7 while still thinking about LOST. Apparently, Metro is considering adding retail stores to some of the stations. Now, I don't ride the 'tro that often as I like to work out my sweet haunches on a bicycle, but this wouldn't be so bad. When the train breaks down like it loves to do and I have to wait an hour, I could grab a can of Cherry Coke Zero and a copy of Cat Fancy to tide me over. (Just kidding! I'm deathly afraid of cats!) But wait. According to the story, despite that Metro would sell "light groceries" in the stations, it would still be against their policy to allow you to eat or drink in the stations or on the trains. Well, that makes purrrrrrfect sense (HOLY SH*T! I just terrified myself!), because there's nothing people want to do more than buy a refreshing beverage and then not drink it. THIS CITY IS RUN BY RETARDS.

The End.

Oh, a quick post script about the above-posted photo. It's a print by illustrator/designer/writer Frank Chimero. His work is the tops, in my opinion. It puts the "tych" in my "dip." Wait, what? Nevermind.

poorman's feast!

Everyone knows the economy blows right now. And those of us who are unemployed, even if for ludicrous reasons, might know it best. For instance, I've recently had to cut back on unnecessary expenses like popping bottles of Dom Pérignon, having heat and, of course, wearing pants. But don't think I'm not living large. While I may have had to downgrade from vente to grande, I'm still pretty comfortable. In place of the Dom, I guzzle moonshine that I now make in my bathtub; instead of heat, I warm myself by getting blitzed off of said moonshine; and, really, who needs pants when you're drunk and sweaty?

In essence, being poor isn't so bad. The only real concession I've had to make so far is with my diet. It's amazing how assimilated my body has become to consuming copious amounts of beans each week. In fact, I'm so used to the beans by now, that even if I ever do find a way to make money again, I don't think I'll ever kick my bean habit. Or my moonshine habit. Or my no-pants habit.

The point is, this recession cooking I've recently gotten into is goddamn delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I'm thinking of starting up a Web log to share my bean-centric recipes with the world. My favorite so far is a little something I like to call a Bean Omelet. All you need is a can of beans, an onion, half a pepper, two eggs and a couple of spoonfuls of salsa for garnish. I cook up the beans, onion and pepper first, adding whatever spices I'm able to busk for that day. For the next step, I start making what resembles an omelet by beating two eggs and frying them in a small pan. When those are just about cooked, I add my delicious bean mixture and cover. In a minute or two, when the parfume of slightly charred eggs'n'beans begins to permeate the air, I turn off the heat, add the salsa and stand in my kitchen while eating it directly out of the pan. It really is a tasty, protein'n'fiber-y treat, meaning that just because your wallet is empty, doesn't mean your stomach has to be empty or that your digestive track need be irregular. (Too much?)

You know, the more I think about all of my delicious bean recipes, the more I'm beginning to think this economic downturn has done wonders for me and my bowels. (Too much again?) Not only is it forcing me to get my word hustle on and follow my dreams or whatever, but I've managed to learn to cook delicious, healthy and cheap meals of food. And I'm super-duper regular, or, more apropos, as they say in Russian -- and I'm not making this up -- super-pooper.

But I'm not the first one to discover the joys of depression cooking. Oh no, one Miss Clara, a 93-year-old grandmother from Upstate New York seems to be spreading the scrumptious joys of being poor better than anyone. Check this lass out:



HOLY CRAP! The Great Depression looked awesome! I'm just eating beans in this here modern-day recession, while Clara's whipping up a three-course Poorman's Feast! Not to mention Depression-era entertainment consisted of sitting around a stove and listening to an older family member read romance novels. (Awkward!) That certainly beats watching Dr. Phil alone on a fuzzy, 13-inch cathode ray, hand-me-down TV.

But for real, Clara's sh*t is tight (or should I say her sh*t hits on all the sixes?). Her videos are all worth watching, not just for the recipes, all of which I vow to adapt to incorporate beans in my set of Depression Cooking videos when I turn 93, but for the old-timey stories, like this one in Clara's very first video over two years ago. It's about bootleggers!



That's rich! Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta scram. I must jiffy off to the apothecary, where I hope not to get horswaggled by any fops. Yep, I'm sweeter on old-timeyness than I am sweet on beans. Preposterous, I know, but true! Ta-ta!

memories of a seemingly retarded baby

Sorry I was e-gone for so long, but I was busy. Busy reminiscing about how cool I was as a kid, that is!


And by "cool" I really mean wondering when I managed to kick the ol' Down Syndrome because goddamn, I looked straight retarded as an infant. Ironically, I think I became less legitimately retarded looking when my mom started cutting my hair using the aid of a bowl when I was about three or four or however old kids are when they look like this.


You may notice that I'm also riding the hell out of a rocking horse, which indicates that I must have had an early dream of becoming a race horse jockey. Unfortunately, I crushed my own dreams a year or two later, when I became a five- or six-year-old hussy.


Look how much leg I'm showing! All's I know is that I hope that nail polish I'm somehow wearing at that age was kid-safe because that MULLET I'm sporting sure wasn't! (THANKS MOM!) But a mullet, thank GOD, is no diamond so it couldn't last forever and my mom returned me to a bowl cut when I hit nine or 10.


Oh! And I didn't even mention my sweet third or fourth grade hiptard style! I mean, I have the big plastic glasses, the acid-washed tapered jeans and a vintage 10-speed, which means, besides the haircut, really nothing has changed with me in the last 20 years.

Which brings me to my present, elderly day. There I was yesterday, ridin' dirty down E Street just trying to get to Subway to purchase a five-dollar-footlong, when I was hit. Motherf*cking hit! And it hurt like a bitch, too! Amazingly, I managed to keep going after the first hit, but when the second hit happened, I was forced to take a respite.

"MOTHERF*CKER!" I screamed out. This bitch was relentless, somehow making it around the block before coming back to smack me in the face again.

Unfortunately, this was a culprit I could not shiv or challenge to an old-timey duel. In fact, this heartless foe couldn't even hear my very loud, very explicit cursing. Nope. This dirty rat of an enemy was invisible, inescapable and cold...literally. I'm talking about the wind! (HA! RIDDLES!)

In short, the wind sucks ass. It was to the point yesterday when I was being almost blown over sideways. More importantly, it hurt my face. Actually, I take that back, it hurt my face until it went numb. And while my fellow cyclists may blame me for not dressing properly for the windy conditions, I refuse to surrender my above-pictured aesthetic in order to kowtow to this blustery butthead.

And so I will continue to guffaw in the face of this fickle foe! I will gulp the wind down like a 7-11 Slurpee® because victory is sweet and ice-cream headaches hurt so good, not unlike this epic John (Cougar) Mellencamp song and video.

So, in conclusion, if you see a former seemingly retarded baby with a sweet haircut and tight pants cursing while she rides her vintage sh*tty bike downtown with at least one five-dollar-footlong in tow, don't be alarmed. That's the kind of awesomeness I exude that just cannot be caged, you know, until I get arrested.

almost heaven, west virginia

This weekend was surprisingly productive for me. And not only because I didn't cry myself to sleep each night clutching a bottle of cheap rum. It was productive because I managed to get back to the shooting range and I made it out to West Virginia to play the ponies at Charles Tooooooooooooown Races'n'Slots! (Come on, you know the jingle.)

In short, I found home.

Not only was everyone incredibly nice, but I won $375! And while, I'd love to tell you I won by betting the superfecta on Stored Kisses, Bigum, Wild and Tricky, and Bald Baby, I didn't. For one, that bet would've been impossible as none of those horses were even in the same race. They did all win in the name department though. And honestly, I effing suck at picking horses who actually win as my method involves betting according to jockey weight, which is a bit difficult as they all weigh about as much as a horseshoe anyway. Instead, I won my $375 on a slot machine, which means I actually won $364.75 as it cost me about $10.25 worth of spins to finally hit the jackpot. (Math!)

True to form, I wasn't even paying attention when I won because I was too busy deciding on whether to put my money on Grazing With Nancy's jockey, M. Cornwell, who weighs 114 pounds, or Git Out Da Way's jockey, E. Ramirez, who weighs 113 pounds (I ultimately chose him and won $2.80!). But when I heard the sweet sounds of computerized bleeps and blips that just wouldn't quit, I began to realize something on my machine was clearly too legit, so I looked up and saw it. I had one red "7" on the payline accompanied by two purple "5x Winner" decals. This may sound like gibberish, and really, it also looked like gibberish, but this combination somehow meant I won 60 quarters times five, TIMES FIVE AGAIN, which equals 1,500 quarters or $375, or, as I prefer to think of it, 6,536,250 Vietnamese dong, the best named currency EVER.

Of course, my moment of glory was slightly eviscerated when the onlookers behind me noted that had I bet the maximum coinage on the spin (75 cents), I would've won $1,125. D'oh! Thanks for raining on my parade, or perhaps more apropos, sh*tting on my slots, hillbillies with mathematical abilities!

But I shant let my non-knowledge of how slot machines work cheapen my victory (at least metaphorically...) because right now, $375 is more than I make in a week...in welfare, er, unemployment.

Whoops! I better not talk too much about my newly found riches. After all, I don't want to attract a bunch of e-golddiggers, so let's regress back to playing the ponies, an activity at which I objectively sucked, not only at the actual betting, but at the photodocumenting of said betting.

Shady people making shadier bets. He gave us some tips. It didn't work out so well.

Run, G's Heavenly Union, RUN!

Or should I say Gallant Whiskey? Which would apparently be MY NAME had I been born a race horse! Thank you, boundless and useless Internet for providing me a Horse Name Generator! It's almost as good as the Wu-Name Generator, which reminds me, please call me Flailing Fanatical Killer from now on. Thanks.

Speaking of killers -- killer road trips, that is -- I'll be taking leave for the rest of the week as I have some things I need to take care of (read: scavenging for beans) that don't involve me logging onto the Internet for five whole days! AHH! Instead, you can bet that during any freetime I may have in between bean hunts, I'll be studying the Daily Racing Forum, or as I like to call it -- the instruction manual to one of my new careers. The other, of course, is greeting cards.

i wasn't joking...

I really do think the greeting card business is for me. Now if I could just make everyday a holiday...


(I'll start writing full sentences in groups again tomorrow. I swear to Beretta I will, I will!)

a day late, but nary a bullet short

Along with playing the sh*t out of some ponies as well as turning a quarter into $375 at Charles Town Races & Slots this Valentine's Day,* I also went to the range, where not only did I get to shoot a lot of stuff in its proverbial face, but I also learned that perhaps I should try my hand at the greeting card business.


Now, I realize this is a day late, but I just couldn't help myself. I e-love you all too much! Plus, if there's any picture of myself that I definitely want floating around the Internet, it's that one.

BECAUSE I SHOOT FROM THE HIP! HUZZAH!

*Blog post forthcoming.

shiver me putins

Question: Are you one of those people who prefers spring or fall? I'm definitely a fall person. I like when the weather gets chillier and the days get shorter. It matches the characteristics of my heart. You know, cold and dark. So, when I wake up at 7:30 in the morning because it's f*cking sunny and warm, you can only imagine my dismay, which is why I'm now sitting in my windowless bathroom in a bathtub full of ice, the only light being the dim LCD beams emitted from my laptop's screen. *sigh*

The only other manifestations of humanity that can comfort me when the days are so goddamn gorgeous is knowing that there's nearly an infinite amount of retardulous sh*t online that I can waste my time looking at and thinking, "Now why didn't I think if that?!" And so, I award each one of the following links with a congratulatory Creepy Putin blingee because they are the little boy's stomach to this blog's personification of Putin's lips. Think about it. Also, I added in three dancing Snoop Doggs as a bonus.



First up, I have to dedicate a Creepy Putin blingee to the precocious child behind "Kittens Inspired by Kittens." I don't even like cats. In fact, I'm terrified of their sneaking, soul-stealing stare-down ways. But the little girl in charge of this video demystifies the terror. Cats are retarded.


Secondly, Wednesday's episode of the Colbert Report had me LOLing, ROFLing and even LSHISMP,PIMing (that's Laughing So Hard I Sh*t My Pants, Proverbially I Mean). The man's brilliant. Or his writers are. And surprisingly, so is Eleanor Holmes Norton! REPRESENT!


Thirdly, I didn't really watch that many movies this Oscar season and now the New Yorker tells me why. Because they were sh*tty.

Quadrupedally, this hedgehog knows how to party.


And lastly, up your butt with a coconut! Again, why didn't I think of that?!

uh, gee, great.

WHAT THE F*CK IS THIS ALL ABOUT?! I'm livid. Possibly. But I'll get to that in a second. For now, let's go on a short bus trip down memory lane.

As most of you know, I was fired just about a month ago for reasons having to do with this piece of avant-garde art you're reading right now. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say art? I clearly meant to type fart. My bad. Anyway, long (and retarded) story short, because of this avant-garde fart of a hobby, I was canned.

But like any good American with a dream, I didn't let that get me down. Instead, I took it as a disguised blessing to answer my true calling -- writing a 300-page cookbook filled with delicious bean recipes that can be cooked over a garbage can fire on the street. (The working title is "Being a Hobo for Hobos." And now my reference to an avant-garde fart makes much more sense.)

And to fund said activities, I decided to pawn all of my idealistic libertarian tendencies in exchange for government welfare in the form of a $359 check per week from the DC Office of Unemployment Compensation. (Next step: Food Bean stamps!)

Surprisingly, applying for said benefits in DC was easier than trying to hail a cab here. I could do the bulk of the form filing online. The only item the office needed a physical copy of was my direct deposit form, which, in an effort to save 42 cents on postage, I decided to bike to the physical location at 609 H. Street NE yesterday. And even that was a pleasant ride. So, basically, until I read the item I linked to at the top of the page this morning in the Washington Post about how more employers are contesting their former employees' unemployment benefit claims, I was floating along as freely as a loose deuce in a public pool (come on, this metaphor goes along with an avant-garde fart). That is, untouchable and probably a little smelly. Hey, I'm a hobo now. Give me a break.

But now? I'm worried. Well, sort of. See, I'm pretty sure my case will be contested as evidenced by the box marked on one of the forms I received back telling me "an eligibility or disqualification issue" has been raised. However, at the same time, I'm 99.9 percent sure that I can easily counter any contestation any employer may bring up because, really, who wants to get in a fight with a piece of mystery poo floating in a pool? More importantly (and, might I add, logical and less gross), my claim is solid. So solid, in fact, that Ashford and Simpson wrote a song about it when I was just five! That's right, my case to get my money didn't bat an eye when I made it cry and, for love's sake, each mistake, oh, you forgave. So both of us learned to trust, not run away! There was no time to play! We build it up, we build it up, we build it up and now it's solid! Solid as a rock! And nothing's changed it. The thrill is still hot hot hot hot hot hot hot hot hot...or something. Ashford and Simpson are some goddamn mystic geniuses.

But whether or not you're a believer in the great oracles that are Ashford and Simpson is irrelevant as statistics are also on my side, at least according to the Post: "Even as more employers have alleged employee misconduct, their success rate has stayed relatively stable -- they lose on such issues about two-thirds of the time."

Sweet! Three derivative cheers for math: y = ƒ(x)! y = ƒ(x)! y = ƒ(x)!

i'll take the old-timey monkey knife fight please!

After a rather depressing trip to the Ozarks, I have returned willingly to the District, which, after a sweet bike ride that took me on some even sweeter trails out to Old Town Alexandria yesterday, I'm starting to enjoy even more. Yeah, I've gone soft. Suck it.

Or have I? See, despite the fun I had on my escapade into Virginia, I returned to my hyperbaric chamber last night only to be e-greeted by some jerk who had to ruin it for me. Or at least e-ruin it. Please to peep this email I received from someone named "Grade Nation" regarding an essay I posted on a Virginia gun show last spring:

"Wow. What an enlightened, non-partisan review of the gun show. The way that you zoomed in on the purest of superficial was awe-inspring [sic]. You felt uncomfortable, huh. Yeah, I'll bet. It's helps [sic] to know that you're the type to talk about someone behind their [sic] back. Really puts the sparkle in your shining character, so obvious in all it's [sic] many qualities."

Since I'm pretty much legally retarded, I thought this was a nice piece of fanmail at first. I mean, that post was a rather "enlightened, non-partisan review of a gun show," if I don't say so myself. Not that I need to prove anything (it's more an effort to simply blatantly repeat myself) but just check out this snippet from my most enlightened, non-partisan of posts:

"[W]hen I tried to document my experience at the gun show, one of the many men with unusually bushy facial hair threatened to lynch me: 'No photos in here! That's the quickest way to get kicked out and arrested!' Oh Dale City, Virginia! It's the only place I've ever been where shooting a gun is totally fine, but shooting a camera will get your 'arrested.' How fitting."

That's not just descriptively enlightened and non-partisan, but it's definitional of the two words! However, as I read Mr. (or Mrs. or Ms. or Dr., I suppose) Nation's missive further, I slowly started to realize that perhaps he (or she) wasn't writing to congratulate me on being born with such keen observational skills. Nope, as I read further, I began to realize that perhaps the entirety of this piece of misdirected fanmail was cloaked in a sheath of sarcasm (and bad grammar, although that was evident quite early on). I mean, while I admit my ability to "zoom in on the superficial" is indeed "awe-inspring" [sic on purpose], I believe Mr./Mrs./Ms./Dr. Nation's e-tone to be one of snark. And while my personality is indubitably and objectively as sparkly as they get, I do believe this Nation (who, mind you, I've never met, corresponded with or even knew existed before last night) tried to insinuate the opposite through the usage of one of my favorite literary devices! Karma, you are a vicious bitch!

But despite my realization that this wasn't an e-love letter after all, I still didn't cry myself to sleep (although that could be because tears are not conducive to the rest of my circuitry and wires). Instead, I chose to err on the side of optimism and focused on the bright (or at least less dim) side of Nation's epistle. Hey, at least he (or she) read my post completely, which means I must be doing something right! I mean, Nation really paid attention to what I wrote! How else would he (or she) know I'm the type to talk behind people's backs? I wrote it to in an effort to put into perspective just how awkward I felt at said gun show!

"That says a lot because I've been in some pretty dang awkward situations. I've cried at work (awkward!); I've been caught talking sh*t about someone who ended up being within earshot just feet behind me (really awkward!); and, of course, I once got mistook for a Eastern European streetwalker by whom I thought was a regular gypsy cab driver, which resulted in me having to roll out of the moving vehicle (super-MacGyver-style awkward!).*"

That's pretty flattering that this Grade Nation read my post so closely before insulting me from so e-far away. "It's helps" (zing!) also knowing that those who e-dislike me have specific reasons, which is often more than I can say for people who dislike me in real life, since every single holy manifestation you can think of knows that once you meet me in person you automatically love me forever. It's just the way of the world.

So, Mr./Mrs./Ms./Dr. Nation, I propose we set up a tête-à-tête and if the sparkle exuded from my shining personality doesn't blind you with joy (or simply char your retinas), then we can move on to a good old-fashioned duel. Just give me a minute to snatch up a couple of pistols from the back of Jim Bob's freedom-painted pick-up and it'll be on. Or, we can always set up an old-timey monkey knife fight. I'll let you choose, but that last option...well, let's just say it's a win-win.

Taking care of monkey business! ZING!

*By the way, for a complete account of said MacGyver-style shambles, click here.

:/

While I would love to tell you about my awesome Saturday night, which I spent dancing to Claire Hux and Lazerbitch, I'm not going to because I'm busy. Like, for real this time. And, unfortunately, not with word hustling or watching the Tyra Banks Show, but with the events of life and death. To deal with said events, I have been called to Russellville, Arkansas, a place that, quite frankly, I'm surprised even has Internet access. Just kidding! It's not so third world out here. After all, they have two Waffle Houses and a delicious Cracker Barrel, the best old-timey chain restaurant around!

But alas, I've been too busy dealing with one of the most unfortunate facts of life that I can barely enjoy a meal of food, let alone one from the tasty, butter-drenched heaven that is Cracker Barrel.

And so, with little energy and even less time, the blog is going on the backburner until I return, which could be Thursday, Friday or sometime next week. At this point, it all depends on science, God and whatever else possibly plays into the fate of a wonderful, inspirational, strong, stylish and beautiful 87-year-old woman who suffered a massive stroke.

I know this isn't the usual punchline one has come to expect from the retarded mess that is this blog, but I just wanted to let those of you who are kind enough to check in with my twisted mind each day why there may not be a lot of updates in the next week.

But I don't want this entry to be a total downer either, so allow me to slap on a video that I'm sure we've all seen at least 300 times. And like someone you love, this video only gets better with time. However, unlike those we love, this video will never go away and will continue to make me laugh even when laughing seems so wrong. Well, at least with the help of a reliable WiFi network.

Hmm. That was a bit of a downer of an introduction. Dang. In any case, Pearl and Will Ferrell, make me LOL! Stat!

The Landlord from Will Ferrell