This Cheeto Looks Suspiciously Like A Masturbating Man

[Headline, Huffington Post]

This Cheeto doesn’t look anything like me when I masturbate. Should I be worried? Huffington Post male masturbators are among the premier writers and news correspondents in the world, right? If this Cheeto looks like a Huffington Post writer when he masturbates, am I doing it wrong? Am I some kind of deviant or pervert? Or is that purvert? Or purvurt? Or, if you own a cat, purrvurt?

I never compared masturbation notes with, like, my priest. How does he do it? I have no idea. Masturbating makes me want to snack. Does that tell us anything? How many individuals masturbate and snack at the same time? Is that weird or normal? If normal, does it matter whether the snack is healthy or sort of junky? What about binging?

I did see a… what would you call it… a sex tape? Three hundred different amateur, or “amateur,” women masturbating (one at a time). I think… I think they were doing it sort of like me! Except that I’m a little more liberal with the lipstick and nail polish. I need a group! Do they still do groups? I looked into self-pleasuring groups and all I found was something called a “circle jerk.” Eww!

The Huffing Post is liberal, right? Left wing? Maybe I’m just a Republican masturbator. I am right-handed. This would assume that Republican men masturbate. In a dress.

Who makes Cheetos, anyway? What the hell is wrong with them? Cheetos make your fingers totally orange, especially if you suck on them (the cheetos) and get them wet. You eat a bag or two whilst masturbating and what have you got? Soiled briefs. And a wife who wonders why your underwear is stained with the orange residue of… what?

I remember my fifth-grade teacher grabbing me by the shoulders and shouting at me, begging me, pleading with me, ordering me, commanding me to only masturbate in the nude, ever. Take off your pants and your underpants, for the love of God! she would shout. I can hear her now. What was that all about?

I spoke to Horace Pourous about his famous Cheeto collection. Added my voice to those of others urging him to place his remarkable collection in the hands of a responsible museum. During my visit, I saw the Cheeto That Suspiciously Resembles A Woman Masturbating, the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Man/Woman), the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Gay), the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Lesbos), the Joined Cheetos That Suspiciously Resemble A Couple Having Sex (Man/Sheep), as well as the Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Penis, the Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Dildo, the Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Vulva, and the classic Cheezit That Suspiciously Resembles A Cheezit Giving Birth To A Cheeto. Like me, Horace has orange stains on his fingers and his fly.

This Bag Could Change The Way You Cook Forever

No, I’m not talking about my wife, bah boom. Ok, that’s not funny. Thoughts about my wife’s cooking may be found in my NYT editorial, “Nature Gets Even.”

First, let me ask you: do you cook with bags? If so, what are those bags made of? Some variety of cloth? Trousers with their legs tied in a knot and the zipper up, for example?

I have to know your bag habits before I can help you. You can’t just ask me for some random bag hints and expect success to ensue. You’ve got to know bags. You’ve got to have eaten the goddamn nectar of the gods out of bags.

You put the makins (ingredients) into just any bag and expect something edible to emerge, not to mention being ambrosial in its essence, you’re dreaming. You don’t know bags.

First of all, a bag, it has one opening. You try to cook something in what you call “a bag” but it’s got two openings, no way! That’s not a bag! Or even a sack. Or a sac, which may be a whole different thing there.

Which reminds me, do you spend much time with your vacuum bags? If you’re like me, there is nothing more exciting than taking a full bag out to your special corner workspace and opening it up to see what treasures you might find within. No treasures to be picked up by the vacuum in your house? No problem! Creep you neighbors’ houses and “borrow” their bags. Or  vacuum their carpets with your machine. Get under those sofas and ottomans and futons. What an  adventure! I have found things… but I better not get too specific, in case one of my neighbors is reading this.

I was first inspired by tea bags. I used them but then one day I said to myself, hey, why  dip this bag in boiling water? Why not bust it open, replace its contents with stuff I like better, and then just go ahead and smoke the thing? You know? How it is when you get thoughts right out of the ether like that? When you’ve been smoking already?

You see where I’m going here? “Cook” the contents of the bag, don’t cook it. Who needs food? I gave up on food a long time ago. At least, it seems like a long time ago. I’ve opened up the portals. In fact, it’s hard getting some of the portals shut again. But without food involved, they can just hang open, no worries.

A 101 Year Old Marathon Runner Discovered The Secret Behind Limitless Energy!!!

You think I’m going to tell you? Get the hell out of here!

Yeah, I read the story. Marathon runner! A hundred and one, with my prostate every piss is a marathon.

Did I discover something? How would I know? I can’t remember what day it is. Where the hell am I?

Look, lady, I’m trying to run here. See that peak? I’m heading up there now. Say, what’s wrong with you? You’re panting like my spaniel.

These questions about what I eat and drink, what is that? Who cares what I eat and drink? For one thing, I’ve got no teeth. I haven’t been able to taste in years. My wife, when she’s mad at me, she could be feeding me ca ca, pardon my French.

She’s a hundred and fifteen, my wife. Don’t talk to her about my energy. All she cares about is my lack of energy. In the noodle, you understand, and I’m not talking about my head.

That’s her up there. Almost to the top of the peak. She runs ahead so she can get back and cook my dinner, God knows what that might be.

All my family runs. Hers too. My mother was running when I was born. She dragged me behind her by my umbilical cord. Don’t ask me if the placenta is a magic energy food. Remember, I didn’t have teeth back then, either.

You know that saying, the one about not getting old? It was a guy in his nineties said that. What the hell did he know? When I was ninety, I was… I was… What were we talking about? Why are you stopping? You’re gasping like a guppy. We’re no higher than twelve thousand feet or so.

Look, I can’t stop. Come for dinner.

Training the Palate

My first entry on Typetrigger, a fun site. The challenge: write a quick piece including the word “spammer.”

Before we married, my husband had to agree to let me civilize him, starting on day one. Otherwise, no go.

I love the man, but when we met, he was a barbarian. Did not change his underwear or socks on a daily basis. Emerged from the bathroom with his hands still dry. Never used a washcloth.

He’s a lovable lug, but really.

Now, after a year of wedded bliss, he is much improved. When he gets up in the morning (after me), he makes the bed. He shaves every morning. He’s cleaner all around.

He says Yes Ma’am and No Ma’am. He opens the door for me. He says please.

At table, he is learning, slowly, to appreciate good food. The first time I served him Eggs Benedict, he stared at the plate, uncomprehending. Ditto my merest excursions into gastronomy, via, for example, veal scallopine with asparagus. My husband’s gustatory tastes (if that is not redundant) remain of the most basic sort, and whereas he readily took to my requests for cleanliness and organization, he has resisted my attempts to educate his palate.

Last night, I placed before him roasted artichoke with chipotle aioli, as a starter.

His visage grew petulant.

“Tonight I want Spam,” he said.

“My dear,” I said, “that’s quite impossible.”

“No,” he said. “I want it.”

” But I’ve made Parmesan pumpkin dumplings.”

“Not tonight,” he said. “It’s Spammer nothing.”

Guaranteed Weight Loss: No Dieting Necessary

Why do diets fail? Because you want to eat! It’s only natural.

Civilization is set up to feed you. Your culture surrounds you with good things to eat. You’ve got to be sick in the head to ignore the blandishments of the food industry. You’ve got to be mentally ill, literally, to lose that blubber. You’re not a fat slob; you’re a child partaking of the fruits of humanity’s evolution toward perfection.

Nonetheless, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be thin. And there is nothing wrong with acting upon this desire.

But not by dieting, for cryeye. Want to end up in an asylum? Go check out your local mental facility. A lot of thin dudes in there!

What are the alternatives? Surgical intervention? Lipo? Medication?

Friend, your body is a temple, not a lab rat. Only God above should be allowed to mess with it. Do you want some money-grubbing sawbones mucking around inside your digestive tract or sucking your essence out from under your skin with a garden hose? I don’t think so.

Which is where the Inner Me Institute comes in.

Park out front. Come in. Tell us how many pounds you want to lose (forty minimum, three hundred maximum). Let us run your credit card and confirm that your payment clears.  Step into one of our private treatment rooms. Change into a tieback hospital gown. Lie down on a comfortable treatment table and let one of our friendly young service techs intubate you. In the blink of an eye, as it seems, you’ll wake up thinner. As thin as you want (and have paid for).

No angst. No drugs (except for the one that knocks you out and keeps you under). You’ll just lie there with enough water flowing into one of your veins to keep you alive.

“When are you going to begin?” you’ll ask when you wake up. You won’t even know that days or weeks or months have passed, until you stand in front of a mirror (with our help) and behold your new self.

One of the young techs will drive you home in your car. Go inside when you get there, accept the admiring stares of your family, and eat something (some vomiting may occur).

When the weight returns, come right on back!

7 Mistakes You’re Making With French Toast

From International Food Quarterly.

Just eating French toast is a big mistake in the first place, if you’re restricted to heart-healthy foods; but let’s assume that your life is not yet completely ruined in that way.

The seven French-toast mistakes:

1. Cooking your French toast like you cook your French fries. Avoid deep-fat-fried food in the morning, except for doughnuts with powdered sugar. Substitute fatty bacon strips for food fried in fat.

2. Refusing to eat French toast because the French didn’t send troops to fight in the Iraq war. This is only a good excuse if you know and can prove that the toast in question was cooked back during the run-up to the war when the French turned up their cowardly noses at all those weapons of mass destruction, or before Saddam was apprehended. You’ll sometimes run into such pieces of toast at the army surplus or at the estate sale of an Iraqi war veteran.

3. Dipping your slice of bread in the French-toast batter and then inserting it into your toaster.

4. Using a whole baguette, dunking it in the batter and sticking it in the oven. A reminder, friend: here in the U.S., we’ve discovered sliced bread. It’s the greatest thing since whatever was the greatest thing before sliced bread. There is a reason the French call bread pain or sometimes pain complet.

5. Using duck eggs in the batter. There is something weird and unAmerican about pulling eggs out from under a female mallard. It could be against the law and if it isn’t, it should be.

6. Eating French toast for dinner. I won’t bore you with another of my rants about IHOP. If you want to help the communists launder their money at this “international” chain of restaurants, go right ahead. Eat pancakes for dinner. But don’t kid yourselves. If the Reds eventually  get their way, you won’t be eating pancakes or French toast for dinner; you’ll be eating Russian borscht.

7. Using French toast in your sex play. I know, I know. I say this about every food except ice cream, jello, and cukes, of course. Maybe you know something about French toast that I don’t. After all, it’s French for a reason. Let me know.

 

What You Don’t Know About Dish Towels

[Headline, Huffington Post, 02/09/12]

1. You never have to wash a dish towel. Why not? Because you are wiping water off clean dishes with it, and that water is effectively washing the towel itself. If your dish towels get dirty, don’t blame the towels!

2. You can use a dish towel as a bath towel but you shouldn’t use a bath towel as a dish towel. This is because you can rub a dish on your bottom, for example, but you ought not rub your bottom on a dish. Wait a minute. Does that make sense?

3. If you are a guy and you want to meet girls at the beach and you take a dish towel out there and spread it out on the sand, instead of a beach towel, hoping to get the “Aw, isn’t that cute” reaction, go home. Stay there.

4. If you are a gal and you want to meet guys at the beach and you take a dish towel out there and spread it out on the sand, instead of a beach towel, hoping to get the “Aw, isn’t that cute” reaction, and you also wear a seriously tiny bikini, and you’re cute, then the size, shape, and color of the dish towel will prove immaterial to your success.

5. In the case of a kitchen fire, knotting together dish towels to use as a rope out the window will get you an “Aw, geez!” reaction when the fire-fighters finally reach you (your remains).

6. On a happier note, disagreements about dish towels and bathroom-guest towels come in at #7 on the list of common reasons for divorce. I believe that guest towels and their use are the real culprit here.

7. You can use a dish towel as an oven mitt, but don’t use an oven mitt as a dish towel. I think a lot about this. It’s a metaphor.