Saturday, May 13, 2006

Condi's biscuits on crack

W’s gonna talk about immigration on Monday night. Here’s a little bit of what he’s expected to say.

What I find amazing is that the dems and libs will come out in droves – from street-level junkies to WDC whores – to tell us how incredibly stupid the man’s plans are. It’s not like he’s Ted Kennedy who’s been drunk since election night 1960. W’s working hard and making the best decisions under the circumstances. Shut up, cut him an f’g break for once, and focus on your own pathetic problems. Quit transferring your failure to succeed onto a reformed alcoholic that’s been elected as governor twice and president twice. Your claims of “incompetent” and “fool” and “liar” ring a bit hollow when I look into your eyes.

Speaking of hollow, WDC Mayor Marion Barry pulled into traffic without looking. This guy is like a bad penny. Always popping up in circumstances that remind a person of being on crack. A cracked penny. Some people should have the decency to just die. Culling the herd. Ancient concept. Net increase to the gene pool. Isn’t Marion a chick’s name? Anyone look up his skirt lately?

This is one of the funniest protest letters that I have ever read. This adjunct English “professor” at Boston College “resigns” because Condi Rice is a “liar” and she’s been invited to speak at the school. The sitting Secretary of State – the first black female in that role and the highest black female in any position ever in the United States government – and this loser “resigns.” So funny. An adjunct? That’s like saying, “I drive past Harvard every business day on my way to work. Because you have [insert garbage political position here], I am hereby and forthwith changing irrevocably my commute route.” The speaker would then stomp his feet and purse his lips into a pout. Maybe his head would flick backward as his hair catches the wind he made. His support group would then begin a murmured chant of his terrestrial name as our defiant hero fights back tears. Weeks later, he’ll revert to his old commute route because he gets easily confused and seems to sleep poorly under such stress. Poor sleep patterns always changes his bowel-movement cycle which results inevitably in poorly timed flatulence, including (most unfortunately) when his new boss introduced himself and shook our grandstander’s hand. Our political grandstander knew the permanent damage done to his career when he overheard the boss saying, “so I grab his hand, shake, a little pump, and out the other end comes this ‘toot!’ It was like a carnival toy except I didn’t have to insert a quarter! Oh, yeah, wait, I pay the guy a wage. Set him up for failure – shouldn’t be hard – let’s get rid of him by month’s end. This company’s got enough issues. We don’t need problem farters. Poor guy’s probably holding them in now. Gonna start puffing up, looking jaundiced. Could you imagine the headlines, let alone the Worker’s Comp claim, if he explodes from excessive methane reserves? We don’t need that kind of publicity.”

Someone is finally making the connection between the Da Vinci Code and the PBUH Cartoons. I hate to write it, but I don’t really know what the Da Vinci Code is all about. My first brush with it years ago suggested that if you sent in three box tops from Cocoa Puffs and $1.95 and a self-addressed envelope that you would get in return a special decoder ring. The ring could be used to find fun things in the Bible. Something not far removed from observing that the middle verse of the Bible is Psalms 118:8. That’s two pair. Noah (animals two by two). A name of two two’s (two vowels and two consonants). Desmond Tutu. The wa-tut-ze. Number 9. The White Album. Another two pair (John, Paul George, and Ringo). The Beatles … beetles … bugs … animals … Noah! The circuit is closed. So let it be said, so let it be written, so let it be done. I think if you look hard enough at anything, you’ll find what you want to find – it’s up to you: looking for the deepest recesses of God’s mind or an anus pumping out methane? Send me $1.95 and an envelope. We’ll talk.

This is a very cool site of old cookbooks. Whenever I look at a recipe, I always think of my dad. He had one cookbook, the NYT Cookbook. I got it. Stuck amongst its pages is a handwritten recipe: “Mom’s biscuits. 1 cup milk. Enough flour to make a biscuit. Bake at 350.” Can’t improve on that.

I haven’t eaten chicken since the late 1980’s, but I have never forgotten Chicken & Dumplings. It was a marvel to me as kid how the dropped biscuits covered the top and it was a stew underneath. I love to cook, and I think seeing the magic of this recipe was a huge motivator for me at an early age. This recipe is the closest I can find to my childhood memories.

Keith Richards has been discharged from the hospital after falling out of a tree. My son said that the initial measure of success for Keith’s brain surgery was finding anything inside his skull. I think his theory was premised upon drug use killing off brain cells. Smart kid. Very good at logical reasoning.

GMail has been down for almost two hours. I’m about to act out. In fact, I think I will. Now.

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