Cut-and-paste my face over
Mary Decker's (and kick the breast size up a notch or two), then put Zola Budd in a portable latrine maintenance truck, and you'll have a pretty good idea how my right foot came to look like an eggplant last week.
For my part, I'm convinced that the Instapundit (no, I'm
not going to link to him) is at the bottom of this "accident." We haven't spoken since I left the flaming bag o' poo on his website. Not that he soiled his feet stamping it out, mind you — he just let it sit there and ripen for weeks, as it was functionally indistinguishable from so many of his own posts.
In other news, it looks like my house-sitting gig for
H. Paul Bremer has run its course. This is a bummer indeed, as the boys from Halliburton had just finished recaulking the hot tub, and I was looking forward to my planned weekend blowout with the cast of
The Swan. It was gonna be
the Fourth of July party, I tell you: open bar, Atkins-friendly buffet, Bobo circulating the patio with alfalfa satays. Now it's all shot to hell, and I have to get the sofa reupholstered and sound stage taken down before The Viceroy (as we used to call him in our fraternity days) gets back. Same old story: the neighbors file their noise complaints, the cops call his voice mail, and he flies home two days early to confront me about it.
But that's Paulie for you. He's been like this ever since we were in school together — forever sweating the small stuff. And boy, was he making a nuisance of himself these past few weeks: calling me from CPA HQ to find out if I was home to receive his Amazon.com deliveries, sending all those constant nagging emails about getting back in touch with the contractor about the chipped bathroom tile. I hate to say it, but if
certain people would just mellow out a little, I wouldn't have to fund Shi'ite insurgencies half a world away just to get a little
me time.
Well, the negotiations were long and arduous, the lawyers barked and spat, but after a long three days it all came to fruition. The papers are signed, the
heretofores and
henceforwards duly noted and initialed, and I am now pleased to announce that Phutatorius & Co. has finalized a three-way cross-promotion deal with
Pepsico and
Smith & Wesson.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking,
What does this mean for me? Well, for starters, it means FREE STUFF. Oh, did I just grab your attention? Thought so. This new partnership will bring all kinds of bennies to devoted readers in the coming months. For starters, y'all will be looking down the barrel of free 20-ounce bottles of Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Mountain Dew, from now through September! Here's how it works, in three easy steps:
(1) Take a walk down to your local Army/Navy surplus store and pick yourself up a Smith & Wesson brand firearm;
(2) Visit this site and pick up today's "password to Pepsi";
(3) Now walk on down to your corner store, wave your weapon at the clerk — make sure to get it right in his face so he can see the Smith & Wesson logo — and say the password.
Bingo! Walk out the door with your free drink!
And just to get the ball rolling in style, I'm going to serve up two days' passwords at once. But after that, only one a day. If you're thirsty, come see me.
Tomorrow's password: "DANCE, YOU BASTARD! DANCE!" Then, after a short pause, "I DON'T SEE YOU DANCIN'!"
And Wednesday's: "HEY, PARTICIPATING VENDOR! CLOSE YOUR EYES AND SAY YOUR PRAYERS!"
Watch this space for more great offers, including a ten-minute "Grab What You Can" shopping spree for ten lucky winners later this month!
So it occurs to me that I've gone almost a year posting on this site without an empty recital of
God Bless America for gratuitous applause. Shame on me, people — love for a nation and its values does not a patriot make. It's an opt-in category, dammit, and you have to sing the song. So here goes:
Bobo — bring my tuning fork! And hustle! Honestly, what is an intern chimp good for? Oh, there we go. Thank you, Bobo. I didn't realize it was in your mouth. From the top then, people. Piano first, then oboe, then Bobo with the spoons. And-a-one, and-a-two, and
God bless America,
land that I love!
Stand beside her, white with FOOOOOAM —
Ah, screw it. A
link to all that hokum ought to be good enough, right? On to real content, then:
You know what? I think that if the International Society of Biscuiteers could finally agree on a design for a squid-shaped animal cracker, more people would grow up to eat
calamari. And if more of us ate calamari together, we would all be a lot happier, as a people. Write your cracker company today — tell them to get on this. It may just be the catalyst for world peace that has eluded us for so long.
and blah, blah blah, BLAH-BLAH BLAH,
my home, sweet home!
In the spirit of the
Super Size Me documentary, which I still haven't seen, and while all of it remains fresh in my mind, I think I should lay out in full what I had to eat this week, while the Wife was in Madison at her RNA conference.
• Tuesday, June 1: One peanut butter and jelly sandwich; one green apple; one banana; one cup raspberry yogurt; one cheese quesadilla, with sour cream and pico de gallo; one taco "lorenza" (grilled corn tortilla with steak*); one taco "machos" (steak, cheese and chile verde*), four oz. chips, with salsa.
COMMENTARY — On Tuesday we see Phutatorius proceeding with a best-of-intentions packed lunch. The Wife leaves in the interim, and dinner finds him prowling outside That Mexican Place Around the Corner.
• Wednesday, June 2: One glazed doughnut; one plate chicken tikka masala, with rice; one plate chicken curry, with rice; one green apple; three hush puppies; three corn fritters; two Texas-style beef ribs; two Arkansas-style pork ribs; black beans; cole slaw.
COMMENTARY — Wednesday is the day it all goes
completely to shit. The single glazed doughnut is a weekly institution, but on this particular Wednesday it was a harbinger of trouble to come. Redbones' hush puppies and corn fritters are materially different foodstuffs; it is important to try them both on a single visit. It is not critical that one eat three of each. Not with the rib chasers, anyway . . .
• Thursday, June 3: One turkey sandwich on a roll with swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, and mayonnaise; three chocolate chip cookies; one cheese quesadilla with sour cream and pico; one taco "mixto" (steak and chorizo*), one taco "gringas" (lean pork and cheese*), four oz. chips, with salsa.
COMMENTARY — Thursday was the day I began to feel the effects of binging. It started on the treadmill in the morning, a mere ten hours after the Redbones orgy, when a fourteen or fifteen-hour buffer is the bare minimum required before any sustained period of motion is attempted. The turkey sandwich followed a negotiated ceasefire with an indignant GI tract. But then That Mexican Place came calling for dinner, and my outside and insides were at war once again.
• Friday, June 4: One calamari platter, consisting of six oz. marinated calimari salad, one stuffed calamari, two calamari meatballs, six oz. fried calamari, with supporting portions of fried cod and six oz. French fries; caesar salad; one slice pizza with buffalo chicken and pepperoni; two slices pizza with sliced tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and caramelized onion; one scoop Toscanini's "Hydrox"-flavored ice cream.
COMMENTARY — What can you say about calamari? A man's gotta have it on Friday. The buffalo chicken pizza was over the top, I'll admit. The tomato-mozz pie I split with my uncle and Giovanna. But I had to try that buffalo chicken.
• Saturday, June 5: One bowl Special K Red Berries; two fried vegetable samosas; one tandoori pork rib; one plate vegetarian saag; one plate chicken tikka masala; six oz. naan flatbread; one bowl buttered, salted popcorn; two slices pizza with sliced tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and caramelized onion.
COMMENTARY — Reheating that pizza was the closest I've come to cooking for myself this week. Dinner was light after the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet.
• Sunday, June 6: Two bowls Special K Red Berries; lunch and dinner TBD.
COMMENTARY — I'm thinking That Mexican Place Around the Corner for lunch. The Wife might be back by dinnertime to save me from myself. God help me if she isn't.
*Description taken from menu of the
Sonora Mexican Grill on the corner of Western and Putnam Avenues.
