Sisterhood of the Traveling Plants

I'm currently out of town for work; I'm doing University business in beautiful Kansas City, Missouri. One of the advantages to taking work trips is that my meals are paid for, which is a huge money-saver for me (a major disadvantage is that I'm away from my wife, but thankfully I've been able to take shorter trips and get back to her quickly).

On the subject of meals, I had real sushi for the first time ever my first night here. Nothing says "fresh raw seafood" like "we're as far from a fucking ocean as we can possibly be," right? Anyway, the sushi was quite good, and I don't really regret it, except I noticed I had a hard time burping to relieve the incredibly pressure on my stomach after eating just a skosh too much. I tend to eat quickly and swallow a lot of air, and so for me, burping isn't just disgusting, or a party foul, it's a matter of survival. After all, nobody likes a puker.

Anyway, tonight I ate at Chili's restaurant, and I got to thinking.

First off, I've always known that chili is a meaty, spicy soup, whereas the Chili's logo is a chile, a type of pepper. This implies that Chili's restaurant is either owned (or was owned) by a person named Chili, or some sort of genetically modified animated talking pepper monster.

That would be cool...although I think "Chile monster" is not a Sesame Street character I'd ever want to meet. Cookie monster is a messy eater, but can you imagine getting habanero in your eyes because the fuzzy bastard next to you has no table manners? He'd be a total asshole, that's what I think.

A botanical note: being members of the Capsicum genus, and therefore the Solanaceae family (also known as nightshades), chile peppers are fruits.

This implies that Chili's restaurant is possibly either by a fruit, or possibly by the other kind of fruit.

Either way, it was still free. And that's super (thanks for asking)!

Words to Live By

I have decided that whenever someone asks me, "What the hell is wrong with you?" I'm going to start responding with, "Hey, chicks dig that shit." So, the next time I try to eat a napkin and someone asks me what planet I come from, I'll just say, "Hey, chicks dig that shit."

You try it. I think you'll find the same success I hope to.

Also, funny portmanteaus, in order of funniness:
3 - Vurp - A chunky burp.
2 - Shart - a chunky fart.
1 - Snart - A sneeze and fart at the same time.

Don't laugh - I've seen the last one. It was really weird. And it was my mom.

Stolen from CollegeHumor.com

Possibly the funniest senior picture ever.

Say 'gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.' (from CollegeHumor)

Live Blog: Imo's Pizza

Today, because of the rain (and my lacking a car), I've gone to Imo's pizza to try it out - there's one pretty much right next door to my office. I'm going to post a running blog of how it goes.

12:45: Back to the office - I've gotten an 8" pepperoni pizza with cheesy breadsticks and a cherry pepsi.

12:45: The pepsi is fine.

12:46: First "slice".....ugh. It's like eating a greasy cracker.

12:47: Second slice no better

12:48: It's worth explaining that a "slice" in the traditional sense, these aren't. They're basically square shapes cut from a round pizza, so the "corners" are rounded triangles. Still not very good.

12:51: Just took a YouTube break. Imo's runs advertisements about how some people like these things, but why? Why would you like this? Did the Crusaders like going to prison in the Holy Land? It's doubtful, but I'd waffle between the two if given the choice.

12:53: Just got a piece with pepperoni. It tasted slightly better...the greasy meat drowned out the taste of weird-ass cheese.

12:56: Seriously, what's up with the cheese?

12:57: "911, what is your emergency?"
"Yeah, I just ate some Imo's pizza."
"Is this an emergency?"
"Give it a minute."

1:01: Taking a minute to allow my stomach to settle, I looked up an interesting article by an obvious idiot about the origins of Provel cheese, which supposedly sits on top of an Imo's pizza. I'm seeing cheddar, myself. Anyway, he's an idiot because he liked the pizza.

1:02: Oh, look...the cops are here.

1:03: The police saw my pizza box and understood instantly. They're gone now.

1:04: Honestly, even their logo is somehow off. It looks like a skinny girl with weird breasts and a mustache, or maybe a dude with gynecomastia.

1:05: Having fought my way through the pizza, it's time to try the bread.

1:06: Oh my god this is delicious! Why don't they just stop selling pizza and switch to this?

1:10: I regret this decision so much. I'm nauseous and bloaty. And belching like a factory smokestack filled with rootbeer and cherry bombs. Why do people eat this?


Ugh...I wish I hadn't done that. I'm officially adding Imo's to the list of restaurants Kirsten and I cannot eat at again: McDonald's, Applebee's, and Outback.

Disconnected Thoughts of July 17th

Yesterday Kirsten and I watched I Love the 70s, Volume 2, 1977....the one with clips of Pumping Iron, the documentary about Mr. Universe and the showdown between Arnold Schwarzenegger, Lou Ferrigno, and some other dude. I don't think I realized until watching those 32-year-old clips on that 4-year-old-show how much bodybuilders are basically just stacks of meat with hair at the top - it's ridiculous.

Don't believe me? Here's the promo poster featuring Ahhh-nold.

Also, we're watching (right this very instant!) VH1's Rock Honors The Who, and Tenacious D just played. Am I the only person who thinks that Kyle Gass looks vaguely retarted?

Mario Kart is still hard and irritating.

The Cardinals got totally jobbed on the Matt Clement thing. I know his salary is covered 75% by insurance that all teams take out, but still, they're paying 25% of 1.25 million dollars for a whole lot of nothing.

Fatter and Balder

This weekend has been a series of very strange moments for me: it's the weekend of my high school reunion (go Capital High School Cougars! WOOOOOOOOOO!!). And there were quite a few people I recognized immediately: the class president, I knew her on sight. A guy from my drumline (and his wife, who sat in front of me in AP Chemistry junior year and was in the band with us) was pretty much unchanged. My old friend Curt, from elementary school and Boy Scouts looked exactly the same except for the addition of facial hair. My ex-fiance? Piece of cake to pick out. It was really awkward to see her, though. That's a story for another day that probably won't get told at all.

But there were other folks I just didn't quite immediately recognize. A fellow by the name of Joe (who describes himself as a gypsy) was very, very different - more tattoos, for starters. A fellow by the name of Marc - I don't remember him at all, or if I do I've pushed it out. Tyke, Jason, Justin....nothin'.

And really, a lot of them look different - less hair, more body fat. And kids! Seeing some of these folks with kids was the strangest thing, because I had a hard time imagining many of them even dating people in HS, let alone reproducing with someone.

As an aside: at this very instant, Kirsten is singing along with the SpongeBob Square Pants theme song.

The trip out there was weird, too...and very smelly. Indiana still smells like boiling cow shit. There was a point where I turned to Kirsten and asked, "Did someone shove one skunk up another skunk's ass and then run them over?"

We'll be back on Tuesday, at which point I will promptly forget everything that happened this weekend.

Random Thoughts, Chapter 4 (or something)

I don't think Kirsten has any truly, consistently funnier friend than Ryan. Great quote from last Friday while Ryan was on the verge of sleeping in her chair:
Rory: "You could stay up."
Ryan: "Or I could just cut a bitch."

Also, is it wrong that I enjoy modern Disney movies? Not the ones from the 1930s-80s. Those were terrible. And really, not even Tarzan, which I dislike just because Phil Collins won an Oscar for the world's crappiest song.

Nevermind that both Belle and Ariel are kinda hot.

But honestly, modern Disney films like The Emperor's New Groove and Lilo and Stitch are not so bad. They're fun, they're witty, they're generally lacking in musical numbers, and they're strange. All things I like.

Nevermind that I have been known to randomly burst into bad renditions of show tunes.

Finally, we're not pregnant.