Cereal numbers

When I'm eating a bowl of cereal, the information on the cereal box becomes both fascinating and terribly important.  Whatever the boys at Kellog's have to say, I need to know.   The anecdotes about wheat farming and home-style recipes still in use at the cereal factory are compelling.  Likewise with the quick-fix snack recipe that calls for the cereal I'm currently crunching.  Maybe I'll make it someday!  Of course, the nutritional info is the most important information.  During breakfast, my wife may try to ask me a question or give me a kiss goodbye.  Dammit, honey.  Not now.  I need to know how much riboflavin I'm getting here.  

Eating cereal is addictive.  That's probably why they call it "cereal."  It's like those serial killers -- they can't stop doing it once they start.  The serving size for cereal is one cup.  But I eat 3 or 4 bowls.  So I'll read the vitamin chart on the side of the box and start worrying.  Is it possible to overdose on this stuff? By my calculations, I just ate the equivalent of 42 Flintstone pills.  God, I hope my liver doesn't shut down.  

That would make for an embarrassing share-session at the rehab clinic.  "Hi, my name is Rich and I'm a Froot Loopahalic.  [Hi, Rich]  I knew I hit rock-bottom when I developed Shredded Wheat induced bowel obstruction and I was free-basing Total with Calcium  through a crack pipe.  This one time, I aspirated the toy prize.  Bad times, man."

Speaking of which, do you think serial rapists like to spoon their victims?  


A few thoughts...

If I were Michael Phelps, I wouldn't worry about incriminating pictures of me smoking marijana.  I'd be like, "You want to ban me from Olympic sports?  Oh well, I guess I'll take my 14 gold medals and build a fort with them, maybe have a few left over to make into ninja throwing stars or something.  And I can do it, too, because I'm a multi-millionaire.  The only recession I worry about is my swim trunks crawling up my ass crack!"  Then I'd suck a huge bong hit and blow it right in Mark Spitz's face.  Stuff that down your Speedo, Mark!


Wouldn't it be nice if people who talked a lot got repetative stress disorder in their jaws?  Oh, I'm sorry to hear about your jaw bone, Bill.  You know what helps that?  Rub some Bengay on your jowls and shut the hell up for the rest of the week.  


I'm lowering my fashion standards as I age.  When I was young, I wanted to look cool, hip, and sexy.  Now I walk up to the mirror and think, Hey, this isn't too embarrassing.  I can get away with this look.  That's what fashion becomes as you get older -- a quest not to embarrass yourself.  The best possible scenario is that you blend in.


Mental health therapists recommend that when you're angry with somebody, you should write an angry letter to that person. In that letter, let all your grievances hang out.  But once you're finished, don't mail it.  Destroy it.  I take this advice, only I don't destroy something I spent so much time writing.  Instead, I tape it to a large rock and send it crashing through their kitchen window.  The experts are right!  It's very therapeutic.


Sometime during my lifespan, I became dependent on entertainment at all hours.  For example, I literally need the television to fall asleep.  That flickering noise box is a sleep aid.  How patholgocial is that?  And what's more, I have to find something good to watch before I can fall asleep.  Honey, give me the remote.  There's a special on the Discovery Channel I'd like to completely ignore and fall unconscious to.



Driving through the foothills at nighttime, I saw a cone of pink light cascading from a street light.  The light mixed with the fog to make a pink, ethereal soup. It was beautiful.  Later, as my car wound through the hills, I spotted a blackened hillside peppered with house lamps. As I gazed left, I saw the city skyline.  Everywhere I looked was incandescent beauty.  The electrified earth glimmering within the basin of the black desert hypnotized me.  It was exhilarating.  And then I thought of the irony of the environmental movement that damns what I saw.   Without land development, electricity, technology, mining, fossil fuels and the like, the terrain would be black, cold and inhospitable.  Why can't environmentalists appreciate beauty in man-made things?

I'll catch my dog lying in darkness.  I flip the switch and the lights brighten the room.  Suddenly, my once-blind dog now has the miracle of sight.  But it doesn't surprise her or delight her.  It doesn't even faze her.   I've given her an extra sense – the most important one at that – and she just looks at me, wags her tail, and goes back to sleep.   Shouldn't she be in awe of her newly found sight?  I'm amazed at a dog's lack of capacity for wonder.   Hey, Fido!   A miracle just took place.  Aren't you curious how it happened?

The recession has had a less-than-positive effect on me – particularly as a shopper.  When I walk into a store or a restaurant, I've got the attitude that I should be received as royalty, worshiped as a god.   I'm that rare breed of cash-paying customer.  I walked into a Best Buy after reading they're teetering on bankruptcy.   In I walk – a customer with a wallet full of cash.  Suddenly I become Julius Caesar.  Fetch me plasma TVs and laptop computers, royal subjects.  Kneel before me, Geek Squad dude.   Everybody rejoice!  Your benevolent king has arrived.  Cast rose pedals before my feet and make way for my procession down the DVD aisle.

A poem in two lines:

She claims that it's mine, and it scares the heck out of me.

But her threats are benign; I've had a vasectomy.

Buttramification:  the study of the consequences of chronic anal sex.

The best thing about being a procrastinating masturbator is, you're always looking forward to what cums later.

Obama lovers:  How's the transition from “Yes we can” and “Hope and Change” to “Things are horrible and they'll likely get worse” going for you?  Let me tell you what the New York Times isn't reporting: it gets much worse.  And it will stay that way long after blaming Bush is a plausible excuse.

The “natural living” advocates have just release their latest brainchild: the reusable toilet wipe.  Why stop there?  Let's do the environment one better and stop wiping our asses altogether.  Wiping is so anthropocentric.   Let's let whatever residue be, just like the animals do.  Maybe we can learn to lick ourselves clean like a dog – perhaps in some fruity, San Francisco yoga class.

Now that gas is $1.70 per gallon, are they going to rename the Smart Car?  How about the “Short-sighted, Novelty-chasing, Dumb-ass Car?”  That thing is so small, if you cut a fart, your ears would pop.


Infomercials and me

I'm a sucker for the late night infomercial.  I never learn.  Maybe it's because I'm more suggestible at night, when they broadcast.  By then my mind is fatigued, intoxicated and incapable of critical thought (like an Obama voter).  I tend to accept things at face value. I yell to the television, “That's the most ingenious invention ever!  How have I survived this long without it?”  This is why I have a cupboard full of useless crap.

Recently I bought this vegetable chopper.  Maybe you saw the infomercial.  You place the vegetable underneath the device.  Then you repeatedly punch the crap out of it, activating a reciprocal blade.  Each time you punch, the blade slices into the vegetable, twists, and retracts.  After a series of punches, you have a neatly diced pile of vegetable in the bottom compartment.  Behold – a delicious salsa in 9 seconds!

Not quite.  The problem is, the chopper almost chops the vegetables.  The vegetable's skin remains intact, so that you wind up with a tapestry of chopped vegetable matter.  But all is not lost.  All you have to do now is place the semi-chopped vegetables in a blender or food processor to finish the job – you know, the food processor you hoped not to need anymore once you bought the chopper!

That's the problem with infomercials: it's not a lie; it's just the best-possible-scenario.  It's like a girl's picture on MySpace or those dating websites.  Yeah, it's her.  But she's not really that hot, dude.  It's just a really flattering picture – a miraculous coincidence of clothing, lighting, coloring, point-of-view, concealment, and dumb luck, captured in an instant on film.

Still, those infomercials move some product!  They work because they exploit the one vice common to mankind: wishful thinking.  We want to believe.  We want to believe there's a $20 device that will solve all our cooking needs, trim our waistlines, organize our clothing closets, replace a cupboard full of utensils, illuminate our homes, provide home security, repair old shoes, clothes and furniture, bond any material quickly and easily, and pay for itself many times over.  Buy our product now – it defies the laws of physics... and your sense of reason!

Lately I've been tuning in to watch the infomercial for the Shamwow, a miraculous new chamois.  Life is full of unwanted liquids.  Enter the Shamwow.  It's a magical towel that vacuums fluids and retains them (incidentally, why don't they make contraceptives out of Shamwow?) until you hold it over a sink and ring it out, at which time it spills its contents.  Miraculous!  I'm sure it works every bit as good as the pitchman says.  Have you seen this pitchman, by the way?  How about that hairdo?  I wonder how much styling gel the Shamwow would suck off that pitchman's head if he applied it to his scalp and punched it a couple of times, like he does on the simulated carpet spill.  Come on, Vince.  Sell me on this thing.  Pull that Shamwow over your head and start punching, you Jersey tweaker!

That's another infomercial necessity – the pitchman with the quirky mannerisms and cool accent.  See, if it were just a normal guy, you'd watch for moment and then say to yourself, “This guy's full of shit.”  But if the guy has a cool accent and acts really excited, he becomes Honest Abe.  Ah, he's from Australia and he's hopped up on crank.  A guy like that would never steer me wrong!

Infomercials try to rush your purchase.  But you must call now...  They don't want you wasting any time thinking about it (like global warming initiatives and federal “stimulus” bills).  It's ironic, considering they expect you to spend 30 minutes watching the damn infomercial.  Now that they've made the pitch, you don't have a second to spare.  On the contrary, pitchman.  I just wasted 3 hours of my life watching infomercials on zero-down real estate investing, food processors and shammies.  I've got all the time in the world.  Plus, time-management isn't my strong suit.

I'll let you know how the Shamwow works out.  UPS is rush-delivering 8 of them to my house.  I can't wait to spill something!


Bread and Whine

When I'm in a restaurant, I ride an emotional roller coaster.  It's the complimentary bread.  Nothing evokes more excitement and, at times, more anxiety than the bread.  I might drop 25 bucks on an entrĂ©e and I don't give a damn about it.  They can bring it next Tuesday.  I don't mind.  Maybe it will taste great. Maybe it'll disappoint.  Perhaps the portion will be too small or overcooked.  Hell, I don't care if the waiter serves it up ice cold, on fire, or marinated in shards of glass.  Just keep the free bread coming.

Why doesn't bread and butter taste as good at home?  What's so special about restaurant bread and butter?  Where do they get that lightly whipped sweet butter?  It's as if Venus supplied the milk from her divine teats.  Ambrosia!  Can I buy this magical butter somewhere?  Maybe they import it from Cuba.  It must surely be contraband for all the pleasure whipped inside of it.

Maybe you're like me.  The bread-eating becomes a game.  How many free rolls can I eat without spoiling my meal?  Answer, who cares?  I'm going to keep eating bread until the food arrives.   I'm going to crap a dough ball tomorrow, but it will have been worth it.

The worst thing is when the waiter forgets the bread.  That's an emergency on the order of Hurricane Katrina and a baby-down-a-well, combined.  Damn that waiter.  Well, I should give him an extra minute or two.  Hey, maybe he's waiting for a fresh loaf to pop out of the oven just for me!  Then the waiter resurface from the kitchen.  No bread.  That son-of-a-bitch. Is he smoking dope in the back alley?  He thinks he can screw me out of my complimentary bread and still get a tip?  Ah, go easy on him, LBB.  He probably just forgot.

Another minute will pass.  By this time I've already ordered. Still no goddamn bread.  I'm becoming irrational.  I'm thinking about pulling the fire alarm or brandishing a pistol or calling in a bomb threat – anything to get the ball rolling.  I plopped out a ton of dough for this meal.  I want the bread I have coming to me.

How about when you're dining with 5 or so other people, and the waiter brings out a basket with 4 rolls.  What kind of sick, ancient Roman arena contest is this?  A shortage of rolls can turn perfectly civilized people into gladiators with steak knives.

The table goes quiet as everyone makes a mental bread roll count via their peripheral vision.  A showdown is pending.  Bill, this bread basket ain't big enough for the both of us.

My mental gears start wheeling.  Well, I hope Jim ate before he came because he's not getting my roll!...  Damn that Sharon.  Five minutes ago she was boring us to tears with her Atkins diet speech and now she grabs a roll?  What happened to your low-carb miracle diet, Sharon?  I hope that pig splits her dress.

On the outside, I play it cool.  I drop a line like: “Oh, there's bread.  Maybe I'll have a piece.  Then again, I don't want to spoil my appetite.”  God, I hate myself.  What a phony bastard I am.  A real man would take the last roll, but I'm emasculated by years of politeness programming and social mores.

Larry has an interesting approach.  He grabs the last bread roll.  And just as I'm about to give him a steak knife tracheotomy, he begins carving it.  Evidently, he's cutting off a piece for himself, and leaving the remainder for the more patient and polite among us.  Good work, Larry...  Wait a minute!  Larry cuts himself a piece, but it's way more than his share.  He clearly exceeded a fair portion of the last roll.  You son-of-a-bitch.  So that's your game.  I hope you choke on it, Larry.  And if you go for the remaining piece of that roll later, you'll be dislodging my salad fork from your metacarpals.

Dammit people, this bread is for all of us!

We could use another basket of bread, if it's not too much trouble,” Sharon tells the waiter.  Sharon, I could kiss you on your obnoxious, low-carb-eating mouth.  You got the waiter to bring more bread!  All is right with the world.  After all, since I haven't touched a roll, etiquette dictates that I have dibs on the next basket.  Suck on it, dinner companions!  I'll be able to score at least 2 rolls without drawing fire from the others.  After all, aren't I the saint to waited until everyone else got some bread?  When the next basket of bread arrives, I've got free reign.  Carte blanche!  Hold your tongues, dinner friends.  Let he without sin cast the first roll.  Ah, by the time I'm done with my rolls, the main course will have arrived and I won't give a darn about a stinkin' basket of bread.  Viva bread!  Viva Life!  Viva Las Vegas!



*I saw a 1976, full-frontal nude picture of Madonna.  Somebody tell US Airways that I think I found the “black box” they've been searching for.  They can stop dragging the Hudson River.

*After seeing that nude picture of Madonna I had to wonder whether that was her snatch, or if Gary Coleman fell asleep in her lap.

*Hey Madonna, go ahead and Open Your Heart, but close those legs!  PS, La Isla Bonita needs a little landscaping

*I want to invent a cigarette you can smoke in the shower. I'm calling it the Smoke-on-a-Rope.

*Also, I want to start a line of Christian-themed cigarettes: Jesus Joints, Manger Methols , Frankincense Lights, Burning Bush 100s, Shepards' Smokes... that kind of thing.  

*I like to dance when I'm at the local discotheques, but as a rule, I don't dance to the song unless the singer has gold teeth.  Gold teeth = gold record = prison record.  Yeah, Wayne Newton has gold fillings, but no, I won't dance to him, nor are you likely to read about him in the context of a firearm criminal charge.

*The recession is so bad, 50-Cent just changed his name to 3-For-A-Dollar.

*If “cans” is another word for boobs, and a boob job is called a breast enhancement, then could you call a breast-enhancement surgery a Canhancement?”

*How does a blind person stop himself from falling asleep when he's tired in the middle of the day?  It's already nice and dark in his world.  It won't help him any to force his eyes open.  If anybody reading this is blind, can you email me?  I'd really like to know how it works.

*The best thing about the latest Batman movie is, they didn't have the fruity costume designer put nipples on the batsuit again. That was worth $9.50 right there!

*I'm waiting for a prominent social scientist to correlate reality TV programming and anti-American sentiment around the globe.  Such work has the makings of a Nobel Prize.

*Palm Pilots and Smartphones are the Swiss Army knives of the electronics world: they do lots of different things, none of them particularly well.

*Sometimes my life seems like I'm just killing time until time kills me.

*People are up in arms over the terrorist wiretaps.  But it's wrongheaded anger.  Nanny-Cams are all the rage.  I'm sure the ladies on The View are all for Nanny-Cams.  Why should an au pair have less right to privacy than a bloodthirsty terrorist?   I say we put nanny-cams in terrorist camps.  Akmed, I swear that Cabbage Patch doll is giving me the creeps. I don't know why, but I have a strange feeling it watches me.