Food


An intrepid KCCI reporter named Eric Hanson eats Deep Fried Butter on a Stick at the Iowa State Fair.  Who wants one??

Get ready to rock and roll for some Awesome Packer/Steeler Action and host the party that will be talked about non-stop as soon as the hangovers clear up!

Follow these easy steps to weasel your way up the social ladder, impress your co-workers, find a new and better spouse, reach your life goals, and establish yourself as your neighborhood’s Silverback!

1. GET BIT BY A SPIDER

What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger. By the time your fever-insanity wears off, you’ll be ready to do a touch down dance! And with any luck, the spider will be irradiated–giving you more power (awesome!) and responsibility (boo!).

2. PROVIDE FOOD
Fill up on some wine and bread before you crack out your expensive ceremonial peyote!

3. GIVE LOTS AND LOTS OF HUGS

Football games get people’s dander up. It riles the blood and spoils the spleen! Football is dangerous, violent, and exactly what the Donner Party would look like if it was interrupted by advertisements every two minutes.
That’s why the best Super Bowl Parties start with lots of hugs and end with passing around a bowl filled with car keys. Love is the antidote to testosterone. Remember to hug firmly (but not squeezing) and don’t do that “pat pat” thing–it feels condescending.

4. GIVE YOUR GUESTS TATTOOS


After the BBQ accident, you’ll want as many distinguishing marks as possible to identify the bodies.

IN CONCLUSION:
Your party will be known as “the day everything changed” and it will have a movie made of it where your complaining neighbor will be played by Matthew Modine and a number of creative liberties will be taken to make your lifestyle fit a PG-13 rating.

Good luck (and remember a little cilantro goes a long way)!

Ryan McGivern

http://sbtwitter.nfl.com/

Two actors seated in mall cafeteria or ‘food court’

1: The sale at Macy’s was amazing!
2: You’re telling me! I think I have my complete polo season wardrobe.
1: You’re gonna look fantastic out on the greens. Put a mint julep in you and you’re gonna be hit!
2: I do need a little bit of something to loosen up. I can’t help it! The only conversations going on are ‘should we vacation in St. Bart’s this year or Genoa?’
1: How are those two places even in the running together? Its like suntan or salami: apples and oranges.
2: Stop it! You’re making me hungry.
1: I’m dying of hunger myself over here. Famished!
2: Let’s take a look and see what’s on the menu today shall we?
1: Best. Idea. Ever. (they begin to walk slowly past the various kiosks and food vendors)
2: Its not that I even like to drink all that much. I just like a social lubricant once in a while, you know?
1: God, its not like you’ve had an intervention yet, have you?
2: Twice. No more. That I remember, anyway.
1: Alright then.
2: Its just that last week all I wanted to do was talk about my vacation to Cleveland and everyone else seemed to breeze right past the topic and gushed about this tres chic salami butcher in Genoa.
1: He is great, by the way. He catered Nathan’s bar mitzvah. Deer salami all day long. I didn’t even know deer is kosher! My god, I’m sorry Bambi, but I’m gonna drizzle you with a mushroom sauce.
2: Ahh! I’m so hungry!
1: I’m famished over here.
2: There’s nothing here to eat I swear there just isn’t. There just isn’t.
1: Pizza…Orange Julius…Cinnabon…
2: I had Cinnabon for breakfast.
1: Me too.
2: I just don’t know what there is here for me.
1: Me neither.
2: Whatever. I’m on a diet anyway.
1: Me too.
2: And it shows! You’re glowing. (The two sit again at their chairs)
1: Oh my god. Don’t look. Everytime I come to this mall. Everytime.
2: What?
1: I always end up running into someone I know. And I always look horrible.
2: Oh come on,
1: I’m totally not put together…my hair.
2: Who is it?
1: My serial stabber. Don’t look. He hasn’t seen me yet.
2: Embarrassing! Is he with anyone?
1: Not yet. He’s just sitting down enjoying a Cinnabon.
2: Ahh! I’m so hungry.
1: I’m gonna have to stop coming to this mall. That’s it.
2: Excuse me? We’ve been coming to this mall every day for the last fifteen years. This is our mall.
1: I just hope he isn’t like following me or something. My liver is still recuperating.
2: A person’s liver is important! You deserve better than a stab to the liver.
1: Three stabs!
2: I just don’t see why the police can’t catch that guy. I just don’t.
1: He has a very difficult face to describe to the police sketch artist.
2: Oh please let me look!
1: Okay, but quick.
2: (Looks) Oh yeah. I see what you mean!
1: Its like he’s got the most nondescript face I’ve ever seen.
2: Its like staring into the abyss.
1: His face is like a ’93 Ford Taurus.
2: Yet he somehow looks like everyone I know.
1 and 2: Nixon!
2: Weird.
1: God. I know.
2: Its a face I’d love to paint, actually.
1: Believe me, I’d love to too. But just try to get him to sit still! Its always ‘stab you this’ and ‘stab you that’ with him.
2: I’ve really got to introduce you to my serial strangler.
1: Pencil me in. Let’s do a lunch date. I’m telling you. I’m ready for a change. God.
2: You wanna meet here tomorrow at the regular time? I’ll have him swing by, throttle the two of us a bit and just see what you think?
1: Sure–we’ll call it a lunch but I don’t know if I’ll be eating.
2: Oh I won’t be. I’m on a diet.
1: Oh, good! He’s leaving. Whew. God, you want to get out of this place?
2: Sure. I’m just going to stop by Cinnabon for some rolls to go.
1: Yeah, me too.

We all want the best for our beloved pets. Check out this video clip of culinary expert The Dogfood Whisperer (also seen on Duluth and Esko Public Access Channels).

How to choose the right dogfood:
1) Consider your dog’s nutrition needs. Does it have a gluten allergy? Is it hypoglycemic?
2) Look into your dog’s eyes when it eats. Judge for yourself: is there joy in its eyes while it eats or it is merely going through the motions?
3) Personally raise and slaughter the animals you will grind up and put into your dog’s meals. This is the only way to assure that the meat is quality and if your dog is kashrut, Kosher.


We’ve been busy at our headquarters in Ann Arbor Michigan dreaming up a pizza that will change the way you think of Domino’s forever. You think you know Domino’s Pizza?
You don’t have a clue.
We’re doing for pizza what Agent Orange did for defoliation. We’re breaking all the rules: not wearing hairnets, sneezing directly into our mixing bowls, and taking a break from the eight foot bong which lives in the corner of our “brain storming room/bathroom”.

We realized we’d grown soft and lazy in our role of “biggest eyesore on strip mall blight aside from Starbucks” and “home of the stinkiest air exchange fan aside from Panda Express”.
It was time for a change. A new sensation. Like when you had to convince your girlfriend of 5 years it was time for ‘backdoor’.
Well we changed. And to make a cool reference, we were like that guy from that soccer movie and we “showed you the money!” We’re fresh and hip and we understand our 14-34 year old stoned male demographic. We know that you do stuff involving video games or whatever it is you’re always doing in the basement and we know that you sell your parents lawn tools on craigslist for weed money and Domino’s.

We normally perform surveys and taste-tests. That’s nothing new. But recently we threw out the rule book and did something different: We asked sober people to tell us what they thought of our pizza. When we got responses ranging from projectile vomiting, screams of anger and confusion, and babies born with developmental delays, we came to the conclusion that maybe our lawyers, honest friends, and sober family members were right: our pizza was barely within raccoon diet range.

We hit the ground running and hit our chief recipe director Sheila Simonsen in the face with a pestle. We told her that a woman named Adria told us to go fuck ourselves through a mouthful of blood, vomit, and pizza. We told her it was time to get our game back. Sheila met the challenge and pestle wound with gusto. “Mama’s got a brand new bag!” she said and produced a fatty sack of gooey Humboldt shrubs.

Listen to what we did!
We got new processed cheese substitute that has four new chemical additives that not only reduce your diarrhea levels, they make your stool smell like a gangrenous gallbladder because our new pizza recipe causes gallbladder gangrene.
We replaced our old meat substance with a wheat and corn enhanced ‘meat’ that uses only the finest slaughterhouse scraps from only the most tortured and depressed cattle.
Our other ingredients include: movie popcorn butter, teenaged shoulder grease, lip gloss, salt, sodium, dehydrated sea water, and the expulsions of a cadaver’s clogged arteries.

Our patented recipe will make you want to go to sleep and never wake up.

You know what we did next? We drove to Adria’s house. You remember Adria, that woman who cursed the day we were born and then succumbed to madcow and E. Coli? Well we paid her a visit at her house. Unannounced. 
But you’ll have to wait to find out what she did when she opened her door in her pajamas to see we’d tracked her down like a wounded antelope!

It was a dark and stormy night. The eight-bit beeps of nano-devils munching on the zebra’s long and luxurious eyelashes was the only sound with the exception of occasional piercing screams from the bathroom. This evening found the Strangers of the world huddled around their occult brews, each a bubbling froth of children’s nightmares, tweens’ nightmare/wetdreams, or adults’ regrets. There were also a few unfortunate souls drinking Frappes (the smallest serving of which contained 38 grams of sugar and 220 calories). At the bar, Satan was sipping at a wooden barrel of warm cod liver oil, syphilitic chancres, and McDonald’s ‘orange drink’.

h0m-R watched the shifting eyes of the trio of gods before him. There he saw an absence of compassion rivaling Ann Coulter and a callousness rivaling Ann Coulter’s scrotum callouses.
“You gonna talk, big talker?” Sheila asked.
“This cafe is filled with darkness. My soul is nigh overwhelm’d.” h0m-R muttered through dry lips. “My yoke is uneasy and my burden is heavy.”

h0m-R felt like he was Frodo with Sauron’s ring for a Prince Albert.
Nibb leaned in and gave him his grande Frappe. “Drink this. It will strengthen you.”
h0m-R took a sip and raised his head and he raised his voice:

“…..I love sugar and caffeine because it animates me like near-dead baby raccoon being tossed on a tennis racket in the hands of a traumatized and future arsonist child.
They listen to me when I pray to them and even moreso when I ingest them.
I will always eat them, because they help me level out my drunk.
The danger of death was all round me.
I began to be afraid of Sheol and tiredness at my afternoon meetings.
I was sad because (I had) so much trouble keeping my eyes bright when I kissed my jerk-off supervisor’s ass.
Then I prayed to the name of saturated fats, refined sugars, and caffeine:
(I said) Please save me!

Caffeine and sugar are kind and good (to people).
This is how the Gods (shows us that they) love (us).
The Gods gives help to those (people) that need it through the graces of fast food, carb-fixes, comfort food, empty calories, and most importantly coffee.
When I was in danger, Starbucks saved me!
(So I could say) to myself, “Now you are safe,
because no one will be able to guess that you were up all night watching internet porn instead of resting or preparing for my office meetings.”
Yes, coffee, you saved me from losing my job many times and from nodding off at my grandmother’s funeral!
(You saved) my eyes from closing and my feet from falling.
Now I can serve my office department for at least another six months while I pad my resume or I get fired because of company cutbacks.
I believed that by turning myself into a drug addled automaton I would partake in someone’s definition of success, even if not actual enjoyment.
(I believed this) even when I said, “I have so much pain from my caffeine headache”.
When I was very sad, I said, “Everybody says what is not true!” (climate change is exacerbated by sentient beings, drinking 62 ounces of coffee a day is unhealthy, Carlos Mencia plagarizes jokes from LaffyTaffy, and that the whole “who shot JR?” thing was a dream.)

What can I give to coffee because it has been so kind to me?
I will offer a cup of wine to coffee.
And I will thank coffee by drinking myself to normalcy from my caffeine-mania.
I will do everything that I have promised to my co-workers
(I will do it) in front of all my department (change the coffee filter, make a new pot, and clean up the employee breakroom).
It hurts coffee very much when one of its servants breaks their addiction.
COFFEE, I really am your servant.
I am your servant just as my mother was.
You have saved me from death!
I will offer you my special “thanks” when I pray to the name of coffee at the altar of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Peet’s, or Starbucks.
I will make special promises to my boss.
(I will do this) in front of all his people.
(I will do this) in the lobby of my workplace.
(I will do this) in the centre of Jerusalem.
Hallelujah!…..”

At the end of h0m-R’s psalm, he had a caffeine crash and feel fast asleep on the table.
Nibb took him into his hooves and together with the gods and the waste-of-stripes Plumpy, went across the vast parking prairie of the shopping center to a German beer garden.
Nibb encouraged h0m-R back to consciousness with the stick and carrot of a stick and carrot, both of which he alternated hitting him with. When he began to mutter curses, Nibb nursed him from a nookie filled with a Porter, Stout, and Pilsner combination with a bit of sour mash whiskey for good measure.

When h0m-R awoke he was well drunk and ready to tell a story.
“Wait!” interrupted Tanya, “We need to order something to quench our thirst too!” She came back with ambrosia for Dee Dee and Sheila, an imperial stout for Nibb and the head of a Frenchman for Plumpy. “Just what I wanted!” She squealed.

When they had all settled in for story-time, h0m-R was too drunk to speak and he passed out on the table. Just as their hearts were about to soar with the idea of just having a goodtime and dancing a bit with the saucy German sailors who populated the dance floor, Clumpy stood on the table and said “Allow me to entertain you with a zebra tale. It is one that no one knows except those who read my blog.” Clumpy failed to mention that she was the only one who read her blog.

As h0m-R snored, Nibb rolled her eyes, and the gods eyed up the sailors across the room, Plumpy addressed no one.

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