http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/02/17/ap/strange/main4807636.shtml
Poor guy. The economy is bad and he was just trying to break into a little ol’ car so he could drive to work, I’m sure. Didn’t even see it coming.
The real bad guy in this sitch is the advertising executive who thought it was a good idea to market wedgies for a taco place.
Right about now you’re probably wondering what could be better than post-Valentine’s Day chocolate clearances and the spakin’ new installment of Cadbury eggs. If you’re thinking Peeps, wrong. 150% wrong. And gross.
No, it’s not the resurrection of Jebus. (For some of you maybe, but I’m still figuring out all of that hocus pocus and since I consider the two of us – me and you, the world wide intraweb – to still be courting, I’ll keep those opinions all to myself until our conversations slip into something a little more comfortable.)
Anyway, I’m talking KING CAKE. With that cute little plastic baby inside that you try not to choke on and when you find it, you’re half excited and half creeped out.
I realize that there are religious aspects to King Cakes, which I likely would disagree with, but who cares. It’s a novelty anyway and I’m not boycotting Lucky Charms just because last year I found out leprechauns don’t really exist.
I’ve never made a King Cake before, but it’s all new in ’09 so I’m thinking of giving it a shot. Where the heck do I find one of those little babies, though? I didn’t find it in my slice last year (okay, in any of my slices) so technically I’m breaking the law by starting a new thread. Rogue.
I’ll probably make this one unless you have a better idea. . . but don’t be surprised, especially you suckers in my office, if you find a mini Darth Vader or a Lego man inside, instead of a naked little fetus.
Who said it was okay for popcorn to be a snack at the movies and why couldn’t they have chosen something, oh I don’t know, maybe a little less deafening?
I finally went to see The Wrestler this weekend (awesome) and had a difficult time hearing the on-stage staple gun tactics over what seemed to be 25 people sitting immediately to my left, my right, in my lap and on my shoulders, all chowing down about 38 kernels at a time. I’d rather smell hot dogs and deviled eggs for 2 hours than hear horses people chewing on popcorn during the whole dang thing.
I’m not a movie nazi (unlike some of my friends – you know who you are) and I love popcorn, but I just don’t get it.
I’m going to open up my own movie theater in Santa Monica and only sell cupcakes, falafel and macaroni & cheese.
MSN Health & Fitness just told me that Twix – my hands down, without a doubt favorite piece of deliciousness of all time - is the worst candy bar I can consume. The amount of saturated fat is equivalent to 11 STRIPS OF BACON. Eleven.
My heart has been broken and smashed into little chocolate and caramel-covered graham cracker shards.
So the bajillionaire who funds my organization has a private art gallery in Santa Monica and we’ve been graciously invited to a private tour on Thursday night. I’m pretty stoked since it’s supposed to be a great collection and it’s been a while since I’ve been to a fancy gallery.
We were encouraged to bring a guest, so I asked a friend of mine who’s also an art fan if he wanted to go. His response was exactly this: “Will there be pigs in a blanket?”
I may or may not lose all guest privileges for work social events from this point forward.
Let me save you some time and a few bucks. . .
The new Banana Nut Cheerios sounded delish; however, I haven’t been so disappointed since Revolutionary Road. (Sorry, the company was totes fab but the movie made me want to kill myself.)
Skip both.
I love Winston, I do. I tell him regularly that he’s the best $55 I’ve ever spent and I tend to think that the ways in which I’ve raised him indicate that one day, I’ll have the most perfect real life son imaginable (who’s middle name will be Duke – not open for discussion).
He’s charming, he’s self-sufficient and he doesn’t overeat. He’s athletic, he’s smart and he isn’t all needy. He does his own thing, poses for the camera like he owns it and could really care less if you like him or not. I’m sure if I gave him the opportunity, he’d be a ladykiller (and the line would stretch around the block because he’s so handsome).
But he’s pissing me off lately.
Twice now I’ve come home to my freezer wide open with my Lean Cuisines all defrosted and my churros irreversibly damaged. Most recently, I was hoping to make a cornish game hen that was in there, but in an effort to avoid salmonella contamination, I had to throw it out since it prematurely thawed. And it’s all Winston’s fault.
Evidently, he jumps from the counter top to the top of the freezer and then up to the cabinets where he leaps over to the loft. When he jumps off of the freezer, that jerk’s little hind legs kick the freezer door open and, like a typical man leaving the toilet seat up, of course he’s not going to close the door behind him. So I’m left with soggy churros and a cute little electricity bill.
Anyone want a cat?
Here are my thoughts on last night’s Grammys:
I’m pretty sure Morgan Freeman had a wooden hand underneath that glove. I actually thought he was going to do a magic trick until I realized his introduction was over and then I was all confused. Did you catch that?
Ever since I saw Dancers on Ice at Busch Gardens when I was younger, I can’t listen to Neil Diamond and not think of a triple toe loop during each sweet Caroline. Damaged, I know.
Team Adele! Woop woop. Brits are takin’ ovah. (On stage, not in the kitchen.)
Sugarland’s “Stay” is amazing. Finally, old school Reba country vocals are making a comeback. On that note, Kenny Chesney, give it up. Please.
I thought Lil’ Wayne was in jail. No?
Radiohead, can I borrow your marching band? I feel like everything sounds better backed up with a marching band. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I’ll take some violinists, too.
Simon Baker, call me. Blondes don’t usually do it for me, but you, in those frames, most definitely do.
Kanye – Get over never winning best new artist. Jesus.
I will never stop loving Samuel L. Jackson. Even when he’s on the Grammys and has nothing to do with music. . . except for Shaft.
Secretary of the Arts – I dig it.
Katy Perry, Miss Tropicana 2009 – but in flats. She has ridiculous stems that belong in super stacked heels. At any rate, I was hoping she would perform “Thinking of You,” which I’m mildly in love with at the moment. I’d send you a link but I don’t want Big Brother coming after me for copyright infringement.
Kid Rock. Ugh. I’m from the South and I don’t get it. Repulsing.
When the brothers Jonas are too young to know (and remember) the lyrics to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition,” I think it’s time to take a step back and stick to bubble gum, tween pop music.
Foo Fighters and Paul McCartney. . . Wouldn’t have guessed it, but rock on. Do yo thang.
MIA, please have your baby before you perform like that again on stage. It was the most awkward sight of my life. The belly, the sheer outfit with bizarre polka dot patches, stop it. Just stop it. You gave me nightmares.
And, last but not least, in an attempt to keep this posting somewhat themed, here are my two favorite food-related commercials replayed during the Grammys from the Super Bowl:
Happy Monday.
50% are in the South. Surprised?
http://health.msn.com/kids-health/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100232327>1=31036
