Tagged: ketel one

A Humor Blog For Horrible People

I’m A Horrible Person And I Endorse This Blog. (Paid For By The Association Of Horrible People And Vladimir Putin)

A Humor Blog For Horrible People

That’s my new tagline – and one that will take up residence on my newly-designed website in a month or so after all of my Paltry Meanderings’ readers have caught on. You may have noticed that I’ve got a new name and look. It was time for a change or, as David Bowie would put it, it was time to turn and face the strange.

However, my blog makeover is only one of several metamorphoses I’ve undergone recently. In fact, during my brief August sabbatical:

1) I’ve Become A Vegan:I know…I may as well have just confided to you that I’ve moved to Oregon, stopped shaving my legs, taken to rubbing a chunk of crystal under my arms instead of deodorant, started wearing Birkenstocks, and sold my televisions in order to donate the money to my local farm co-operative. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I don’t even use deodorant. For the record, although I love all critters, I decided to eschew meat and all animal-based products because I had some addiction issues to conquer – namely my lifelong enslavement to one particular substance – not because I wanted to have an excuse for wearing the fugliest shoes ever created. Breaking this dependence was critical to my relationship with my husband, my parents, my friends and my waistline.

Stop! Take Them Off, Mommy. They Burn, Mommy. The Birkenstocks Burn My Feet.

They say, Admitting you have a problem is the first step.So here I am to announce to all of you today that I, Miss Snarky Pants, am an addict. I can’t remember not drinking. I suppose whole milk was my gateway drug, but then my mother further mired me in the Swamp of Dependency by introducing me to Nestlé Quik. Within days, I was a chocolate milk junkie. Mom enabled my new addiction by permitting me to slug down a glass every Saturday morning – as long as I woke her first and asked permission. Of course, I scored half pints of the stuff in the school cafeteria; you’d be amazed what you can get in trade for an apple, half a Twinkie and a bathroom stall blow job.

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Salt Is The Spice Of Life And Other Tales Of Chef-Induced Woe

Salt And Pepper’s Here And We’re In Effect (Image via Cristy Lewis)

Thomas Edison legendarily tested potential employees by inviting them to dinner. If they sprinkled salt on their food before tasting it, he refused to hire them, viewing their thoughtless salting as a sign that their preconceived mindset would prevent them from analyzing a situation thoroughly before taking action. To be fair, this method of eliminating job applicants has also been attributed to Henry Ford, IBM, and General MacArthur, to name just a few.

And I think it’s bullshit.

I love salt. A dash brings out the subtle flavors of food. Salt is to the beefsteak tomato what Matt Damon is to Ben Affleck – the ingredient that makes it worthy of notice. Though I often taste my food before sprinkling it with salt, I like to think that my decision to pre-salt my bowl of Fly Bar’s truffled macaroni and cheese doesn’t make me incapable of critical analysis, but rather demonstrates that homo sapiens are able to learn and make choices based on previously acquired knowledge. Sure, it’s possible that the restaurant could hire a new chef who knows how to properly season food with what I affectionately call The White Devil, but an extra dash of  salt never hurt anybody.

And pepper – make mine freshly ground and applied as liberally to a dish as Donald Trump’s self-tanner is sprayed onto his Oompa Loompa orange face. Black pepper is fine, but a gourmet combination of black, white, red and green peppercorns is sublime. If I had a dick, fresh ground pepper would make it hard.

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Award Posts Make Me Want To Become A Ward Of The State Penitentiary

What Do Brad Pitt And I Have In Common? As A Result Of Fame Coming So Quickly And Us Being So Attractive, We’re Missing Our Sensitivity Chips. (Image via Wikipedia)

I’m a terrible person. If Jennifer Aniston had married me (which would have been creepy because she doesn’t have a penis), when we finally divorced and I posed for photos with Angelina Jolie (not nearly as creepy because I’m pretty sure she does have a penis), she would have told the press in that whiny manner of hers that I have a sensitivity chip missing. Blog success came early, along with the accolades that often accompany this lowly profession (erm, if profession means something I do to while away the hours after I’ve completely emptied my bottle of Ketel One each morning) and, as a result, I’ve been uninterested remiss in acknowledging and responding to some of the lovely awards that have been bestowed upon me by my fellow bloggers.

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