It All Comes Back To The Simpsons: August 2006

"Please, Don't Eat Me! I Have A Wife And Kids...Eat Them!"

Wow...I guess I haven't posted in a while. It's not my fault. I was just too damn busy. Busy being...uh, abducted by aliens. Yeah, that's the ticket!

Ok, maybe not abducted, but Sy and I went camping WAY up north this past weekend. We could see about a bajillion stars, the Milky Way, and shooting stars. We could even see lots of satellites slowly crossing the night sky, as well as one thing that we can only conclude was an alien spacecraft or top secret US military project. It crossed the sky like a satellite, but made a couple very abrupt turns of 90 degrees or more!

Unfortunately, we'd already had a couple of Leinie's in us, so any reports we made to the authorities might have been met with some skepticism. Don't worry Kang and Kodos...your secret is safe with us.

"What Happened To You China? You Used To Be Cool."

Unbefuckinglievable.

It's too bad Tibet has no oil reserves, like Kuwait; or that it's existence was necessary to usher in Armageddon, like Israel; or it isn't the home of a kick-ass shortcut, like Panama. This whole thing just reaffirms what our real foreign policy is about: it's not about spreading freedom or ending repression. It's about what cool stuff do you got that we can get in exchange for helping you brown people out...

Ever since the first days of his presidency, Bush has shown his inability to stand up in any way to China. Remeber that whole thing when our plane was forced to make an emergency landing in China? One can only imagine how the Cuban Missle Crisis would've gone down on Dubya's watch.

"Hey Kids, It's Nachos, Flanders-Style: Cucumbers And Cottage Cheese!"

Garrison Keillor with a spicy little number

Let me start out this post by affirming that I am a thoroughly Midwestern soul: I like a simple, slow-paced life...the sort of life that can be narrated by Garrison Keillor on qualudes; I consider it a joy and an honor to help out a neighbor when I can; and I don't care much for your fancy book-lernin'. There is one thing, however, that frustrates me to no end about residing in the Land of Bland*: I'm consisently let down by the area's feeble attempts at hot sauce.

This disappointment is usually brought on by friends. "Be careful," they'll say, offering up some so-called hot sauce, "just use a tiny bit because it packs a whallop."

I'll tell them that I really like hot sauce, so I'm sure I'll be okay. They assure me that they love hot sauce too..the hotter the better, they'll say. They beg me to trust them and just use miniscule amounts.

I used to take their advice, now I just dump the sauce on with abandon as they watch, wide-eyed and horrified, squirming ever so slightly in their seats with typical Midwestern restraint. As I take a bite, they wince and avert their eyes.

"Eh...it's sorta hot, I guess," is my inevitable reply.

I remember one day my eighth grade Spanish teacher brought in some authentic Mexican salsa and chips. Our desks were arranged in a big circle and she brought the tray around to each student at their desks. She cautioned everyone to take just a little, as it was very hot. As the chips and salsa made their way around, kids started wailing, tearing up and jumping up and down in their seats, and sucking air into their mouths in a vain attempt to cool the burning in their salsa hole.

When she got to me, I tried it...it was sorta hot, I guess.

*One of the funniest stories I've heard about the Land of Bland is from my neighbor. Apparently, her grandmother used to make her own ketchup at home because "that store-bought stuff is just too spicy!"

"I Recommend Getting A Tattoo. They Preserve The Thing You Love...Starland Vocal Band!?! They Suck!!!"

Let me start out by admitting that I do not have a tattoo, nor do I ever want one. I've never felt so strongly about something that I felt the need to plunk down no small amount of cash in order to get it etched into my skin for eternity. It seems like in the last few years, my decision to not have a tattoo could be seen as more rebellious than the act of getting one. Tattos are so clich these days. You've got your barbed wire around the bicep, the chinese character on the back of the neck, the tramp stamp, the preppie girl "look at how naughty and wild I am" tattoo (nearly microscopic smear of ink on the ankle), and, of course, "Wino Forever", for anyone who's ever dated Winona Ryder.

From what I've gathered from talking to people who do have tattoos, the decision to get one usually is made under the influence of something; lust, sadness, drugs, spite, religious cult brainwashing, et cetera. I used to think that guys who got a girl's name tattooed on their body were the biggest idiots of the tattoo set, but then I saw this.