Archive for the ‘humor’ Category
Hey Mom, I find it interesting that you refer to the Weekly World News as, “The paper.”
— One of Mike Myers’ characters in So I Married an Axe Murderer
. . . and from that illustrious paper comes “news” of the shocking source of our worldwide zombie outbreak (yeah, I didn’t notice there was one, either): ZOMBIE ANTS FROM RIO!
In other news, the annual springtime invasion of our house by tiny ants seems to be underway once again. Hopefully they’re not of the zombie variety. Zombie ants make Batboy cringe.
In a perfectly rational segue, here’s my favorite line from So I Married an Axe Murderer, spoken by another of Mike Myers’ characters: “Heed! Pants! NOW!”
There’s no such thing. By calling something unspeakable, you just spoke of it.
The world’s greatest and most eagerly anticipated sporting event, easily eclipsing the combined magnitudes of the Super Bowl, the Olympics, the World Cup, and the National Tractor Pulling Championships in Bowling Green, Ohio, occurred today.
Yes, the Clash of the Titans between international soccer powerhouses Liechtenstein (61.7 sq. mi., pop. 35,000) and San Marino (24 sq. mi., pop. 31,451) was today, and Gott, Fürst und Vaterland triumphed over Libertas (in other words, Liechtenstein beat San Marino 1-0 on the road with a 57th minute goal).
Quake, ye mighty of the Earth, for the mice have awoken and roared, and somewhere Charlie Connelly is smiling. Today, San Marino, tomorrow, the world! Or at least Malta.
I swear I am not making that up. They were also perfectly content to have both playing on repeat mode for several hours.
The overall effect of the aural clash was the impression that Dieter from Sprockets had been tapped to run Nickelodeon (which, now that I think about it, would do a lot to explain how much of the humor in shows like iCarly and SpongeBob SquarePants somehow makes it in there).
The Cosgrove CD was a Christmas present from the grandparents to our three year-old son, while the Neubauten album is something I’ve had in one format or another for many years.
That a couple of preschoolers would enjoy listening to treacly tween pop isn’t the least bit surprising, but their enjoyment of Einstürzende Neubauten is only surprising until you stop and think about it for a moment:
- What do toddlers and early preschoolers enjoy doing? Banging and scraping stuff together loudly, especially if they’re metal pots and pans, with occasional random screaming.
- What has Einstürzende Neubauten made a career out of doing? Banging and scraping stuff together loudly, with occasional screaming.
Add the two together, and of course little kids are going to like avant-garde German industrial music from the mid 1980s. They haven’t had the chance to form a preconceived opinion that it’s strange yet; all they know is that it sounds kind of like what they like doing anyway.
Add processed pop music targeted at kids to the mix, and they’re all over it — which is how we ended up with Einstürzende Cosgrove playing in the living room, over and over again, all morning. To them, that isn’t weird at all. I, on the other hand, was ready to curl up into a little ball muttering, “Can’t sleep – clowns will eat me,” by lunchtime.
I can’t help but wonder what a DJ mashup of the two albums would sound like, if only for the entertainment value provided by potential track titles like “Kissin’ Yü-Gung” or “Shakespeare Brennt.”
Anyway, now is the time on Sprockets when we dance.
Since I’ve occasionally used this space to write about Frankenstein-like food concoctions I’ve created that would frighten Rachel Ray, I’ve been thinking it might be time to start a catchily-titled series of on-again, off-again posts about off-kilter, improvised recipes I’ve come up with — maybe something like, GOOD GOD, DON’T EAT THAT!
This installment of GOOD GOD, DON’T EAT THAT! revolves around a typical Thanksgiving dinner leftover: herbed potatoes. You know the kind; potatoes are cut up into small pieces, mixed with a blend of oil and herbs, and baked in the oven. Normal people will typically use red potatoes to do this.
However, we had Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house this year, and my parents don’t qualify as “normal people.” They know less about cooking than I do. My mom’s favorite food is boiled chicken. That’s right, plain boiled chicken. For seasoning, there might or might not be a stray bullion cube casually tossed into the water. One year for my birthday, I got to feast upon an unrisen orange cake. Then there was the Christmas my mom made sugar cookies and forgot to add the sugar. That one worked out okay, though, because my sister had a very bad cold at the time, so we just fed all of them to her since she couldn’t taste anything. She didn’t know their flavor was practically inedible until after she’d eaten all of them. I won’t go into details about The Great Scone Incident of 1981, other than to say that it explains the origin of the mysterious dent in the kitchen floor of their old house. My dad used to try to make something he called “snowballs” during the holidays, except they ended up looking like underwater mines and managed to suck all the moisture out of your mouth in addition to being totally devoid of flavor.
Anyway, the potatoes they baked this Thanksgiving were a mix of red potatoes, white potatoes, yellow potatoes and sweet potatoes. None of these — especially not the sweet potatoes — cook at the same rate. So, some of the potato chunks were a little al dente while others had turned to paste. Also, the herb dressing the potatoes received was a little unorthodox. My parents had purchased some fresh tarragon to use for the potatoes, because that’s what they heard you’re supposed to use. They didn’t use the tarragon, however, because, according to my mom, “It smelled kind of funny, like it was going bad.” It turns out the smell my mom interpreted as rancid was actually the smell of fresh tarragon.
At any rate, at the end of the day we were given a vat of the oddly un-herbed “herbed” potato leftovers to take home. They sat in the fridge until this afternoon, when I decided I’d better use them up. Since they were a little weird to begin with, heating them up in the microwave didn’t seem like the best option. Plus, I had about half of a leftover onion in the fridge, as well as a few corn tortillas that were nearing their expiration date, so I decided to combine all of them.
The potatoes were already herbed and oiled, but I added more olive oil to the pan for the onion. Once it was hot, I added the potatoes and onion and let them sauté/fry for a while. When they were done, I put them into a bowl with some shredded cheddar cheese and let the cheese melt. Then I added the corn tortillas, one at a time to the still-greasy pan, and spooned the potato and onion mixture into them and let them cook some more (and absorb more oil in the process). To each of the “tacos,” I then added a little bit of Tabasco Sauce, quite a bit of ranch dressing, and a shred of romaine lettuce.
The result was like a mutant offering to the Gods of Taco Bell. I’ve convinced myself that these inbred tacos aren’t as horrifically unhealthy as they certainly are, because:
- I added olive oil to the already oiled potatoes. That’s healthy, right?
- Corn tortillas are whole grain, which everybody knows has fiber and crap.
- Romaine lettuce is supposed to have vitamins and shiznit.
- I used fat free ranch dressing, which we all know makes it totally okay. Actually, I purchased the fat free variety by accident, but that’s neither here nor there.
- The potato mixture contained sweet potatoes, which according to all the latest dietary research are supposed to be able to summon Jesus or something.
The result ended up tasting surprisingly good, although the kids refused to touch them. Unlike me, they know better.
I give it about five days this year. If anyone wants to start a pool as to when it will take the flaming dirt nap, let me know.
If, in the meantime, you want to send the goat an e-mail and ask it to reflect in Swedish upon the meaning it finds in its rapidly impending mortality, you can do so by contacting email@example.com.