Holy flying monster sharks! Careful with the meds, grandpa…
There are just some days when you feel like giant flying sharks are coming to get you.
I’ve been messing around with my violin today, which I haven’t really played since high school. For a split second, I thought I’d have to get up early tomorrow for first-period orchestra practice. It was horrible, and then a wonderful relief when I realized I’m not in high school anymore.
Someday, I will recreate this for my wedding photo.
Some people spend their Saturday nights going out and meeting people, I spend mine depicting the arguments of bitter academics via kitten photos.
In honor of Independence Day, the day America finally moved out of Great Britain’s basement, I’ve decided to take you all on a brief culinary tour of American cuisine. Now, I don’t mean regional foods like clam chowder and cornbread- I mean REAL American food, food that makes you want to vomit, then cry, then vomit tears. Proceed with caution, because I’m pretty sure you can get a heart attack from just reading about these foods.
Deep-Fried Heart Attack.
If there is a food product that is small enough to fit inside a deep-fryer, Americans will fry it. And then they’ll fry it again, for good measure, just to make sure it’s filled with enough tasty trans-fats. It doesn’t matter what that food item is, or if it will taste even remotely palatable fried. Someday, Americans will find a way to deep-fry a heart attack and serve it with a side of butter. But until that day arrives, we have deep-fried Coca Cola.
This is a Coca-Cola-infused batter topped with a Coca-Cola syrup and whipped cream.
However, fried soda pop does not even remotely rival the the almighty Zeus of the fried-food world, deep-fried butter.
Basically, you are eating fat cooked in fat. Now, I’m sure it tastes delicious, but if you’re like me and have seen the organs of a deceased morbidly obese woman, the prospect of eating fried fat is not so appealing. I’m sure the dead lady with the aorta the size of Alaska enjoyed fried butter, too.
America is bacon-crazy. Denny’s, America’s number one drunk hangout, recently did a celebration devoted entirely to bacon called ‘Baconalia’, which brings to mind a bunch of hoofed guys having giant orgies with strips of bacon. They sold bacon-enriched items like bacon sundaes and bacon pancakes.
I…I actually ate these pancakes. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it happened. I’ve come to terms with it, and I’ve moved on with my life. You see, the bacon gets tough when cooked inside a pancake, so it’s a bit like eating bacon-flavored rope stuffed inside a pancake. It was the culinary equivalent of going out to a club, getting drunk, making out with your cousin, and then passing out in an alley way. Which, incidentally, is what most people do before going to Denny’s. From now on, I’m sticking with chocolate-covered bacon.
Foods Stuffed in Other Foods
If Socrates were alive today and living in America, he would be devising syllogisms like, “Hey, I like Food A, and I like Food B, then I must like Food A stuffed inside of Food B!” Surely they must be good together, right?
Wrong. That’s chocolate and sausage in the same “meal.” Whatever it is, it’s a pairing of such unspeakably bad taste that it could only be rivaled by Ke$ha and Miley Cyrus teaming up to sing a three-hour long concert of Nickelback songs.
So, what about putting together similar items that don’t clash taste-wise? Maybe some meats?
Ah, Turducken. A duck filled with pork sausage, stuffed inside a chicken, stuffed inside a turkey. Perhaps one day, some brave culinary adventurer will continue this fine tradition further up the food scale. I dream of a world where my children can dine on a Turducken stuffed inside an ocelot, stuffed inside a bear.
Happy 4th of July everyone!
Became a Phish groupie and followed band around the country for 5 months.
Realized Phish are actually a terrible band; had nervous breakdown
Owls. Giant owls. The horror. The horror.
It is very difficult to claw yourself out of a giant owl pellet with your bare hands.
Took too much LSD; thought I was being eaten and regurgitated by giant owls.
Laziness. You mean I actually have to move my fingers to type? Fuck that.
Wrote blogs so witty that they cause the human face to melt off; realized I had a responsibility to mankind not to share them. It was selflessness, really.
Couldn’t come up with ten items to complete the list; felt that I would incur the wrath of the Gods for not coming up with an even number of items on this list.
Wrath of Gods incurred.
1. All the cash that was in Al Capone’s secret vault.
2. Geraldo’s dignity + his secret stash of detachable mustaches.
3. All my missing Socks (my lost copies of the 1973 Beverly Cleary novel).
4. A parallel world in which I am hotter, smarter, and more successful.
5. A parallel world in which I am uglier, dumber, and less successful (for self-schadenfreude.)
6. A yet undiscovered ecosystem of rare bacteria (actually a likely outcome)
7. A copy of The Cask of Amontillado that a very intellectual construction worker put there as a meta-joke.
8. The skeleton of said construction worker, trapped there after his meta-joke backfired.
9. A tiny Russian gulag filled with tiny disaffected Russian intellectuals writing novels about their experiences in my crawl space gulag.
10. Narnia. An asbestos-laden Narnia.
I think my calling in life is to be a designer of ironic t-shirts. Up next: a “Let’s Get Bizet!” t-shirt.
I am so cultured and intellectual. Who spends their Saturday at a museum watching a documentary film about Bach? Me. I’m like a less pedophile-y Woody Allen.
I should start an all-male J.S. Bach-Tina Turner tribute orchestra and call it “Bach-Men Turner Overdrive.” I don’t see how this could possibly be a bad idea.
You know, Bach is a really funny name. Bach. Baaaaach. Bacccch. Hey, what do Baroque chickens say? Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach. Wow, that was a terrible joke.
I think a good measure of one’s pretentiousness is the relish with which one spits out the name “Bach”. The way some of these classical music critics say it you practically need to construct a hurricane guard to protect yourself from the flying spittle.
Bach had 20 children. Wow. How did he find time for composing in between all that sex he was having with his wife? I feel dirty for thinking that. It just feels wrong to think about Bach having sex. Bach is like your lovable 18th century granddad.
Oh shit yes. A Glenn Gould performance. I love me some Glenn Gould. Remember that dream I had about making love to Leonard Bernstein on a big pile of Glenn Gould records? That was a good dream. Good job, brain.
I wonder if anyone has ever thought of making a porno version of 32 Short FIlms About Glenn Gould. Maybe it can be called 32 Short Fuck-FIlms About GlenDDDa Gould.
I should probably become a porn impresario. Clearly I have a God-given talent for remaking classic films as porn.
The Seventh Squeal can be my next feature after GlenDDDa Gould. Maybe Ron Jeremy can play death…
Fanny On Alexander. Moans and Whispers. Ok, brain, that’s enough. I need to stop dreaming up Ingmar Bergman porn titles and pay attention to this damn movie. I’m an intellectual. Intellectuals pay attention to films and don’t think stupid thoughts about remaking the Criterion Collection as pornos.
Through an Ass Darkly. Stop it, brain! If you stop thinking about Ingmar Bergman porn, I’ll feed you some complex carbohydrates later. I know brains like that stuff. Deal? Ok. Back to the movie.
For a film about a composer of very structured music, this film has absolutely no structure. Zing! I should be a critic.
God, I’m such a jackass. What the hell do I know about documentary filmmaking? I’m so pretentious. Next thing you know I’ll be spitting out the word “Bach” like a New Yorker critic with a phlegm ball in his throat.
Who am I kidding; I could totally make a better documentary than this. I should be a documentary filmmaker. Being a documentary filmmaker is very cool and indie, and I already have indie girl bangs. It’s a perfect fit!
Oooh they’re interviewing Philip Glass! Oh Philip Glass, you look like a sad, hairy Basset Hound. A Basset Hound. A Basset Hound. You look like a Basset Hound. Oh Philip Glass, you look like a sad, hairy Basset Hound. God, I love Philip Glass jokes.
Oh no! I accidentally thought of Philip Glass in a porno! It would just be the same sex scene over and over and over again.
This film is so painfully long and boring I’ll have to go into a “fugue” state to forget it! HA! Oh shit I just laughed aloud at my own joke.
What are you shushing me for, middle-aged lady? Don’t pretend like you’re interested in this film. Do you know how I know you’re not interested? Because you kept calling the film Amadeus “Mozart.” You said, “I love the movie “Mozart!” It’s my favorite!” I ask you, who on Earth doesn’t know the name of their favorite movie, and what classical music fan doesn’t know the film Amadeus? I therefore conclude that 1. You have never even seen the movie Amadeus, and 2. You wouldn’t know a Bach composition if all of its countermelodies came up and punched you in the face.
Oh my god, there are still 40 minutes left of the film. Maybe…maybe I should just leave now. I’m still an intellectual cineaste if I leave a film 40 minutes early; in fact, I’m probably MORE of one because I object to the filmmaker’s disregard of documentary narrative structure. The reasons for my departure are purely artistic and don’t at all stem from the boredom of a feeble, easily distracted mind. I’ll go to the gift shop, buy one of those stuffed Giacomo Puccini beanie babies, and get the fuck out of here.
Wow, that pianist being interviewed is ridiculously hot… Maybe I’ll stay just a bit longer. Hey, maybe he can play the virtuoso concert “penisist” in my porno magnum opus!
So, we’re back to porn again, brain? Figures. In the music of my brain, pornography is the tonic resolution.
That and Woody Allen references. I think my brain is structured like Annie Hall, always coming back to the same joke at the end. God, I’m such an intellectual asshole. Now where’s the exit?
Since I’m typing this using a Windows Vista notebook (against my will, of course), I fear it’s already too late. Oh, my dear, sweet MacBook, you’re dying. It’s like Love Story, but instead of a girl dying of leukemia, you’re a computer with a malfunctioning circuit board. You’re Ali MacGraw, and I’m Ryan O’Neal, except, of course, you were never involved in a passionate affair with Steve McQueen, and I tend not to make sexual advances towards my children at the funeral of my significant other. But like Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal in Love Story, we made one hell of a couple.
Pictured: Me, left. MacBook 2006, Right.
We looked downright iconic together: me, the shaggy-haired chick with bangs sitting in a coffee shop, and you, the sleek, white laptop with the glowing apple logo that assured no one could mistake you for anything other than a Macintosh computer. We looked so cool and bohemian, MacBook. We were different from everyone else, so different than the 50 other girls with bangs and MacBooks in the coffee shop. We were real iconoclasts. This is what makes what I’m about to say so very hard.
I’m going to get a new computer, MacBook. I know, I know. Spare me your sad, spinning beach ball icons. Truthfully, we should’ve known the end was coming for a long time. Your faulty AirPort, your slowness to respond when I tried to refresh my email inbox for the thousandth time— these should have been clues that our time together was coming to an end. Oh, MacBook, I was in denial! But I’ve now come to accept your imminent demise, and I’m afraid this is goodbye.
Why can’t I just have you repaired, you ask? If only it were that simple. It’s no use having you repaired when I could just put the astronomical cost of your repair towards the purchase of a brand new laptop. I know I’m pulling a Tom Brady by trading you in for a younger, sleeker, faster model, but I need something more efficient and reliable for my hectic Internet life. Those Betty White to Host the Oscars and Betty White for Secretary of Agriculture Facebook groups aren’t gonna join themselves.
There’s no need for that kind of ‘language’, MacBook.
But we had a lot of good times together, didn’t we? You got me through homework, essays, and procrastinating on homework and essays. Remember the time we downloaded that Japanese game show? Your sleek LED display showed the bizarre depths of human depravity in crystal-clear detail. And remember that time we wrote a letter asking to be excused from jury duty, and I used 20 pt Comic Sans font so they would think I was a simpleton? Your always-reliable spell check thought I was crazy for spelling jury duty “Juree Doody.” We shirked my basic civic duties as an American citizen together, MacBook.
I know, of course, that you’re just a machine, but I can’t help but feel our relationship was more than that. I mean, you spent more time in my lap than most boys these past four years of college. That time I accidentally closed you on the skin of my upper thigh? It was like you were giving me a hickey straight from Steve Jobs himself. I called it my “Apple love bite.” Yes, MacBook, it was totally good for me.
Now it’s time for you to go to the great KeyNote presentation in the sky, where you’ll join floppy discs and that iPod I accidentally dropped in the toilet. It’s a place where your software is always up to date, and you can organize all the iPhoto albums you want. You’ll be happier there, though I hate that it has to be like this. I’d say I’m sorry, MacBook, but I can’t, because, well, you know.
The Gates to Hipster Heaven
So, fuckyeahmodernism is definitely my favorite tumblr now.