All these years I thought it was the marjoram I was tasting.
Er, people don’t seem to get the above joke. I know because I tried it out. But I have heard the best jokes are the ones that need an explanation so I will try and do so.
Obviously, Paul and Joanne are cooking this dog in a recipe experiment that would later become Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce.
But there’s so much else going on here which distracts from the obvious. Paul’s socks, his shorts-windbreaker kitchen wear combo. How slim and young Joanne Woodward is. The era, the glamor, the nice big kitchen cupboards.
But of course this is the sort of seductive trappings that enabled them to get away with this in the first place. Poor poor Mr. Puddles. Ask yourself, did you ever see another photograph of him again?
Meanwhile at The 98th annual International Jamposium and Preserves Show.
“Damson Plum 1917: Excellent vintage if from the slightly center of the southeast corner of the orchard that is. And free of weasel-fur of course… why I remember a Damson from 1909, Good lord — or was it ’07…”
I regret all the insensitivity I’ve shown to attraction men over the years. Or maybe those named Ken? Or maybe those holding signs? I’m not really sure but if it’s a poster of someone holding up a handwritten sign it usually means you’ve been an asshole in some way to a certain demographic and in this case I wouldn’t even have been made aware if I hadn’t stopped to use the bathroom at the Teen Clinic.
Thank you Teen Clinic for this and for the free condoms and the cold drinks that I think were intended for the teens but I had a couple during that nice long rap session with peer counselor Van. He gave me some super information about self-esteem and boundaries and doing what is right for me. I don’t think he realized my original comment had been about a bunion that was killing me but that’s okay, I learned a lot and by the time we were done chatting it was time to use the rest room again and on the way found out about all this!
Hello all! I’ve been plugging away on my book: a delicate leap in to — and timorous dog paddle within — the dank waters of our social media-entrenched culture and how these murky depths have affected the young people of today.
Their struggles, their challenges and issues.
It’s entitled “Our Children — Our Children Are Arseholes.”
Tell me it’s not too late — tell me you haven’t already picked out your last minute Mother’s Day gifts!
George Bunnington: 16-time candidate for office and former white courtesy-airport phone.
I have currently turned my attentions to writing book reviews for the New York Times.
Yes I’ve been most gratified and uplifted by this new career, at least I was until being informed, upon my 573th submission, that they are not interested in book reviews from a ceramic garden rabbit. Well I wasn’t informed directly but got a feeling this might be the case.
But that’s just how passive-aggressive these people are, they don’t have the decency to reply to my excellent reviews of such titles as: “Introduction To Advanced Home-Skin Grafting “, “Gravy Stain Summer” and “37-9-62, 37-9-66, 34-9-62, er, 73-9 …”
The latter: a searing coming-of-age tale about a girl, a trip to the post office, and a difficult-to-open bike-chain lock.
Continue reading Hello! Remember me?
Obviously, we’re all in atrocity overload but nevertheless, the above inaugural luncheon menu: Blech!
I mean everything sounds good until it doesn’t. I like chocolate, peanuts, crumble, more chocolate but the combinations here? Creme anglaise for chocolate soufflé, not cherry vanilla ice cream.
Christ, it’s like something Snoopy would serve if he was a coked-up hedge fund manager named Kev from The Wolf of Wall Street.
As we all know, he was greatly criticized (mostly by Lucy, but also Linus) for his Thanksgiving menu of toast, jellybeans, pretzel sticks and popcorn but that was — elegant, spare — in contrast to the above display of gastronomical gaudiness. Also he was sensitive to those with nut allergies unlike whoever thought up this horror show!
As the sun sets on Day 7 at The Scottsdale Links Resort, I can’t help but feel I owe the assholes at the Legacy Golf Resort of Phoenix an apology for considering them — during my stay last week — the most virulent form of Knothead to ever flip-flop their off-season holiday feet across The Valley of The Sun.
I’m not entirely ready to issue said apology but I see that their conversation making in loose clusters in the parking lot pales in comparison to the loutish braying-from-balcony to be found here at The Links. And another thing, I know The Scottsdale Links sounds fancy but in fact, no.
Imagine if you will, Bedrock’s Butte Crack Public Housing development designed by Mr. Slate; throw in a fountain with the water dyed Distilled Windex No. 12; a pool area with teen-shopping music emitting from faux rocks; a large television that on a recent evening had swimmers and loungers enthralled by a Bonanza episode plus smaller satellite TVs all tuned to a hockey game and you have the paradise that is The Scottsdale Links.
Also the golf course isn’t even their golf course. The least of amenity-deficit scandals in my opinion.
But at least they’ve got Turner Classic Movies so I don’t see what all this bitching is about. At this very moment I’m watching a Shirley Temple movie (she’s about to lose the Civil War; fucking Yankees! But wait, there’s one good Union soldier, well not good but not a monster…) with the volume off while listening to a Blues show on the radio; plus eating spaghetti and drinking heavily. (Later the heavy drinking turned out to be two-thirds of a glass of Bonterra Sauvignon Blanc — yet another cry for help.)
However, I have made a friend: Barry the Barrel Cactus. It’s a shame we did so poorly at our family activity.
He blames me, I can tell.