Archive for the ‘killer pickles’ Category
Oh hey guys. I just saw you a few minutes ago in the family room.
First of all I wanted to thank you for allowing me to broadcast my show from your living room and/ or kitchen. I appreciate it and I will give you a couple points on the back end once I figure out what that means.
Recently something has come to my attention though, which I can remain silent about no longer. It’s that you hang two fly swatters on a hook attached to the inside of the pantry door where you keep the garbage.
This is where the fly swatters live, which is fine. I’m sure the insect world is very aware and frightened of you two vigilantes keeping their population in check. If bugs had terrorist threat levels our house would be code red and tiny swatter-sniffing fleas would be nosing up against the pantry doors. My problem is not with the swatters so much as their placement.
Due to the laws of physics (an object in motion tends to stay in motion and also centrifugal force), the mere act of opening the pantry door launches these swatters up and away from their hooks, their balletic arc impeded only by contact with an object: me. They are essentially daughter swatters.
Exhibit B: swatters
Not only that, as I am the one who often is asked to take out the trash which involves leaning down and pulling the bag out of the can, my face is at prime swatter level. Taking out the trash for me involves a delicious one-two punch of trash smell and then bug guts. It’s as if I never left New York.
I’m hoping we can move the swatters because if they attempt frottage with my body or face one more time, they’re going to accidentally end up in the trash.
Quietly plotting your demise
It never ceases to baffle me how much the spiciness of mustard can vary from bottle to bottle of the very same mustard. Why is this? Do the spices get inside the jar and then go nuts, potentiating like mad, egging each other on to greater levels of heat? In fact, if I had a pet cause it would be mustard standardization because I feel when you buy a bottle or jar or squeeze container or drum or mustard keg or party ball of mustard, you should know what you’re in for. When I go to Washington, which I will be doing right after this blog post, I will march on the steps and demand standardized mustard for the homeless because right now, while you are tucked safely in your comfortable thousand island world, there is some poor soul out there burning his or her tongue… on the truth. You can’t handle this mustard!
Last night I decided to make myself a fancy frozen treat by putting a swirl of fat-free Reddiwip, which is only 5 calories a serving or, to more accurately reflect how one consumes it, 200 calories for a whole can, onto a spoon and then putting the spoon in the freezer. I made two of these ingenious frozen pops. “That will be a delightful treat when I get home later!” I told myself with no inkling of the disaster that awaited me.
“Ooh look! A fancy frozen treat! Yay for me!” I thought as I threw open the freezer door when I got home. Then I put a spoon in my mouth and before I had a chance to really realize what was happening my tongue adhered to the bottom of the spoon. I think some of my lip was attached too. It was all very Christmas Story. I should have poured water into my mouth which I think is how you detach from frozen metal however I now know that when you are stuck to something very cold your instinct is to pull away which is what I did. “Wow, that was horrible!” I thought, rethinking my snacking options since clearly I was going to be compromised in the taste department. I figured my tongue was just a little sore, probably from the coldness, but the pain wasn’t going away and actually was intensifying. Eventually I looked in the mirror and saw that my tongue was covered in a light smattering of blood.
This just proves something I already suspected: the only safe way to eat whipped cream is to squirt it directly from the can into your mouth.
Check it out you guys. Thanks to something called SmokeStixx, you can now personalize/conceal your cigarette boxes so that instead of saying to the world, “Hi, I smoke!” you’re saying, “Hi, I smoke… and like tiaras.”
But see, while I can’t condone smoking but I can condone stickers. In fact I condoned stickers as president of a sticker club when I was a child. We met in a cardboard box in my backyard. I’m not even making this up. But back to the subject at hand, do you think I want the world to know when I have my period?
I would festoon that shit with unicorns and then grab the box, clutch my stomach and whine loudly about my cramps and how men all suck. Then I’d start crying. No one would be the wiser!
Or what about this?
Like I want to broadcast to the world that I’m eating cheese? Like I want to put my cheese on shout? Excuse me, but a lady never tells.
Similarly, I would recommend personalizing your butter.
Why not disguise it as margarine? Wouldn’t that be a real hoot and a half? It would. So you see, it’s only your imagination that will limit your use of this product, so long as what you’re imagining fits in a small box. In fact—and this just occurred to me—you could disguise a rape kit as a cigarette box. Seriously you guys, I should be in R&D.
Someone reached my blog by searching “caterpillars coughing cartoon pics.”
It’s funny because I’ve written about all those things, just not together.
Also I have puffy eyes from crying. Puffy sad crying pillow eyes. It’s very sexy, as you can well imagine. Also sexy: death, grief and mourning. Right?
I’m sorry, I’m making you uncomfortable. Shall we talk about puppies and ducklings?
I think this is in order:
[A word about what I'm wearing: Sometimes I like to put on everything I get for Xmas as I get it, hence the necklace with tags. Also, I like to tie bows around my head as I'm opening. Also, I'm not wearing any makeup in these photos, and how!]
HOW I TAKE COUGH SYRUP
1) First I pour it in a spoon.
2) Next, I swallow it.
3) Then I freak out.
Should you be considering enjoying shoestring eggplant in vinegar marinade which you probably wouldn’t consider eating anyway—I have a thing for weird foods in jars which few of my fellow humans share—but anyway should you be making this bold lifestyle choice I beseech you to make sure you do not have any cuts or broken skin in your mouth because the eggplant will get in there, get into your bloodstream and then turn you into an eggplant. It’s how eggplant works! One minute you’re trying to introduce Mediterranean cuisine into your diet, the next minute you’re an eggplant. Some of my best friends are now purple.
Wait, come back, that’s not what I meant to say.
See, I bit my lip a couple nights ago so I have one of those things inside my lower lip where it feels like the skin is puffed up to the size of a marble but then I look into the mirror and really it’s much smaller. So I stupidly decided to try this shoestring eggplant because hell, why not? I wasn’t even put off by the strange lack of color, as if Bunicula had gotten to it (anyone?). It looked like bits of pre-chewed albino vegetables, so I decided to dig in. Anyway, the vinegar marinade went straight into my cut and hitched a ride through my face and then shot straight into my brain. “Oh my God!” I yelled at no one, pawing at my lip. “Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God” I said, jumping around. I’m surprised I didn’t start drooling. Maybe I did but I didn’t notice because there was an eggplant-borne vinegar hole in my brain? It’s possible.
So I’m in my kitchen eating gherkins which are sweetened with Splenda (Vlassic makes them, I didn’t invent this combination) which many people including my mom have informed me sounds gross however I like them, and while we’re at it I also like the new Heinz ketchup that’s sweetened with Splenda, in fact I would like to sweeten my water with Splenda except I don’t drink water because it’s filled with disgusting H20 molecules. The Hindenburg anyone? The hydrogen atom bomb? Are you just going to forgive all that? Just because the hydrogen atom’s all like “no, I’m different, I’m stuck to another hydrogen and traveling with an oxygen atom?” I don’t think so.
Anyway, I’m eating pickles when suddenly a particularly slippery one kind of gets ahead of itself and starts sliding down my throat and I sort of try to dislodge it and for a second it goes down further and my sad life passes before my eyes as I imagine the pickle getting stuck in there and not being able to get it out and what would I do, would I go bang on my landlord’s door, begging for the Heimlich, what if they didn’t hear me, what if I die in my kitchen choking on this pickle. It’s amazing how fast that can go through your head. Meanwhile I did something which I can only describe as “hoarking” which isn’t really a word but whatever it was, it worked because the pickle shot out of my throat and rolled across the kitchen floor. I’ve since outlined it in chalk, just in case.
But seriously, how do people who live alone not choke to death more often?
Now I have a terrible headache but I think it’s from the panic.
UPDATE: I just choked on my own saliva and started coughing. What the hell is wrong with me? I hope it’s that I’m compromised from the pickle incident as opposed to losing motor skills.