Archive for March, 2009


Posted in Mundane Events, Up-to-the-minute Scientific Breakthroughs on March 24, 2009 by butthorn

My wife smashed herself in the face with a basketball at the gym last week and I have to drive her to the eye doctor and glasses store in the mall tomorrow, which if all goes according to plan will enable me to miss a goodly portion of the workday.  Though her misfortune resulted in the destruction of what were widely regarded, not without reason, as the lone pair of eyeglasses on God’s green earth perfectly suited to her adorable face, still I am quite pleased with my wife for braining herself with playground equipment, as I would way rather go to the mall than go to work. 


Not to toot the horn of the Bangor Mall (it’s your average charmless, slapped-together eyesore of chintzy corridors populated with stores that don’t sell anything you need or want), but I’ll cop to feelings of fondness for it, like I imagine you do when it comes to the mall you grew up getting dragged to by your friends.  I look forward to wandering around the mall on an early Wednesday morning, when it’ll probably just be me, young moms with strollers, and maybe a few senior citizens getting some exercise.  I am excited to go to B. Dalton and gloss over the coffee table books languishing on the remainder table.  I eagerly anticipate going to Spencer Gifts and regarding their array of overreachingly offensive tee-shirts, novelty pills that purport to encourage erections and arousal fluid, and plastic obese men that pull down their pants and pass wind in your face when you press a button.  Sometimes it’s fun to go to Hot Topic and just stand there, processing your feelings.  I may go to a shoe store and walk around, simply because I like the smell of shoes.  I will get to buy a foofy coffee and walk around drinking it while I do all of this; that will improve the experience even further.  I will probably go to GameSpot and talk myself out of buying a Wii game, either out of thrift or more likely because I will not want to talk to the guy behind the counter, who will try to get me to subscribe to a costly and unreadable magazine, and who will smell like taurine and pewy armpits.  I will not go into the following stores: JC Penney, Sears, Macy’s (although we will probably enter the mall via their befuddling and terrible establishment), Pac Sun, Lane Bryant, Build-A-Bear, Deb (despite the fact that I bought a pretty nice sweater there once), or Radio Shack.  In spite of its deafening music, vapid patrons, and overall gayness, I may briefly go into Abercrombie and Fitch because I once bought the best-fitting and hardiest jeans I have ever owned there and ever since I misplaced those jeans (who loses jeans?  me, that’s who!) I’ve been every so often lackadaisically pondering the shelves of A&F to reclaim them, with little success.  I’ve also heard that A&F is now hiring shirtless men to stand around and be shirtless and, one hopes, to approach people with a beaming, friendly smile to ask if they need any help or if they have any questions, such as “where’s your shirt?” for example.  That seems like it might be sexy, I mean funny, whoops.  It’s possible, though not probable, that I will go to GNC and look at a drink called Redline that is supposed to make you crazy and should only be imbibed if you are about to lift a bunch of weights, which it turns out I am not about to do, yet I like heavily caffeinated drinks and have been unable to stifle my curiosity in spite of several online testamonials advising readers to stay away, stay far away.  I will probably have to make a stop at Movies America, the last remaining vestige for the Bangor area VHS consumer, though it will be a severely truncated visit if the creepy guy who walks around asking people “why aren’t you buying more stuff?” is working there tomorrow.  Yes, he really asks that very question, verbatim, and it is impossible to tell if he is joking.  Furthermore, all of the people besides myself who are still buying VHS tapes are horrifying and insane., so that doesn’t help my comfort.  Well, I’m sure I’m leaving out a lot of fun things that I plan to do tomorrow at the mall while waiting for Annie’s eye appointment to be done, but there’s a few for starters and for no good reason. 

The difficult task of the day will be finding the perfect replacement frames for Annie.  Her glasses were good friends to her and she is pretty stressed out about the very conceivable lack of selection we may be faced with tomorrow, though I would imagine she is looking forward to being able to see again, and I’ve no doubt that through a solid bout of heavy duty browsing we can find her some frames that are every bit as good if not better than the old ones.  I recently had to get new glasses myself, as I had not changed my prescription since, oh, high school I believe?  Getting new glasses is an ordeal and a half.  It’s very tiresome taking off and putting on one dumb set of frames after another, squinting like a doofus into a mirror and repeatedly reaffirming the fact that you’re one silly-looking son of a bitch, especially with these three-to-four-hundred-dollar plastic things scrunched onto your nose. 


Eyes are pretty faulty organs, and I’d like to take this opportunity to complain about them at length.  The one good thing about having glasses is that the lenses provide a helpful barrier against crazy people who want to walk up to you and stab you in the eye with a pencil.  You unfortunate souls with perfectly functional eyes can call me a poindexter all you like, but don’t ask me to lead you to the emergency room once your ocular guts are dangling off the end of that crazy homeless person’s expertly honed Mead number two.  My point is your eyes are basically right out there pleading to be haphazardly punctured.  Even taking unsound, office supply wielding transients out of the equation, on your daily jaunts you could easily run afoul of a errant pointed object or even a careless bird, and bob’s your uncle, you’re the cyclops from “Krull”; ta-ta eye.  Never leave bed is the moral.   

It plagues me that my eyesight is so bad, and that it has become considerably worse over the past few years.  As I said, I went to the eye doctor myself a few weeks ago, and the prescription I was given afterwards looked absolutely nothing like my old one.  My right eye may as well be a gobstopper for all the good it’s doing me.  I just found a website that seems to claim to be able to correct vision via some type of relaxation sessions, reducing ones dependency on glasses.  I cannot be called upon to retain or pay attention to a lick of it, but take a gander if you like.  It can’t be any crazier than anything else.  I might look at it later once I’m done typing this thing and if my wife insists on watching “Charlie Rose” tonight, thus leaving me devoid of suitable entertainment (she taped her old glasses together seemingly for the sole purpose of watching “Charlie Rose”).  Don’t get me wrong, I think it would be very gratifying to be interviewed by Charlie Rose, but his show makes me extremely tired, though perhaps I ought to be blaming that on the hour at which PBS historically chooses to broadcast it.  At any rate, be it noon or midnight, it’s soothing to the max.


He’s beautiful!  I’m talkin’ about a Charlie Rose!

Anyway, that’s about it.  I just wanted to take this time to tell you all that I’m going to the mall tomorrow, and to post pictures of an eye diagram and public television talk show host Charlie Rose.  I may take the camera along tomorrow and take a bunch of electrifying mall pictures to share with you, but I make no promises, as often I find that I do this thing where I say I’ll do something and then I don’t end up doing it.  A strange and compelling habit that quite honestly I haven’t been getting a lot of positive feedback on.  Well, to each their own, I say.  Good night, all!


Posted in Decent Folk on March 13, 2009 by butthorn

Mid-week blogging.  I don’t know about it.  I’ve had three false starts with this one already. 

I’m usually dead asleep by this time (11:27 PM) but I’m keyed up for no good reason so I thought I’d type some stuff into this thing.  My wife is sleeping fitfully in the other room, with “Caddyshack” on TV in the background.  It felt better to leave it on for some reason.  It’s a very comforting thing to have on.  Chevy Chase is fantastic in that film.  He has total confidence in that role.  I know all evidence points to his being a dick, but I can’t bring myself to say anything bad about him.  He just puts me instantly at ease, except in “Vegas Vacation”, which is a film I wish could somehow be unmade.  I don’t think such an event would make anyone in the world unhappy.  The bottom line is I will never have to know Chevy Chase personally, and his films bring me joy and contentment.  If he wants to get in near-fistfights with the I’m-sure-equally-dicky-if-more-consistent Bill Murray over twenty years ago or host reportedly excreable talk shows on Fox, more power to him so long as I get to watch “Fletch” and “Vacation” and even “Funny Farm” and “Under the Rainbow”. 


Jeez, look at him!  He’s practically sultry!  I’ll concede that a few seconds staring into those eyes all but confirm the soul of a condescending jagoff, but somehow this compounds my appreciation of a once beloved and now reviled comic icon.  That is way bigger than I typically like the size of the pictures of Chevy Chase heads I insert into my blog to be, but what can one do about it? 

Somewhere in the far corner of my folks’ basement where all my old stuff is mildewing is a certificate I made in sixth grade out of construction paper and markers that reads “America’s Next Chevy Chase!”  I would imagine I made it for school, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility that I made it for fun in the comfort of my own home; I had no doubt passed the time in odder, even less productive ways at the ripe age of twelve.  From the look of it, I actually awarded the certificate to myself.  It’s hard to know what to think about things like that, but I’m positive I meant it as a compliment.  There’s also a brief essay, probably in the same ripping-apart cardboard box as that Chevy Chase certificate, about how if I could choose to be any celebrity, I would choose to be Steve Guttenberg, “because he is funny and I like him”.  I stand by those words. 


The temptation will always be there to mock these men, but it pains me to do so.  I think they both have an earnest desire to entertain, and hail from a simpler, less-referential era of comedy, one in which they (actually them, not their quip-ready, too-cool characters) were anything but the butt of the joke.  They went from providing punchlines (or, failing that, lovable wiseguy “what can I say?” smirks) to becoming them.  I understand why people make fun of washed-up comedians, and Lord knows I’ve participated in it for cheap laughs (which I will take through most any means in whatever form they are available to me), but I don’t like it.  It’s too easy. 

I love too easy.  I foolishly base my life around too easy.  That doesn’t mean it’s any good.  I bet Steve Guttenberg and Chevy Chase believe that their comeback movie is waiting just around the bend, but the fact of the matter is that movie would need to literally be Oscar-worthy, beyond a shadow of a doubt, for it to garner anything but the derision of people who have never written anything other than long lists of reasons why the things people other than themselves write aren’t good.  A breezy, perfectly likable comedy containing ridiculous, unlikely occurances peppered with goofy one-liners would be excitedly attended by jackasses like myself who fondly recall the heyday of these performers, but would it be because we actually want to see the movie and enjoy ourselves or because we want to be able to write “So-And-So saw ‘Police Academy: The Next Generation’ without shame or remorse” on our Facebook status update and delight in/contribute to the disbelieving and negative comments left by our friends and family?  Not to mention the fact that we’d probably wait until it tanked in theaters so we could catch it on dollar night at the cheap seats, or get it on Netflix or Hulu, repaying our so-called childhood heroes by assuring them the swift and thorough deathfuck we seem to need them to experience. 

I love to make fun of people, particularly people who were once good at things and are now bad at them, and I’m as adept at it as the next lazy jerk, but is it really providing a service?  When we laugh at someone saying not nice things about Joe Piscopo, in the rare event that anyone is discussing him at all (See, I’m making fun of him already!  What the hell did Joe Piscopo ever do to me?  Other than fail to make me laugh even once at any point in time, I mean.  [I can’t stop!]), are we laughing because we genuinely appreciate the wit behind the speaker’s scorn (which seems unlikely given that the brass tacks message is “he is bad at what he does” or “he no longer receives the same amount of money for performing actions that are now considered embarrassing and hackneyed despite their not having changed at all from the time during which we praised and guffawed genuinely at his every word and move” – at face value these are unfortunate circumstances, not jokes) or is just because it comforts us to see someone cut down to size, and we’re laughing because we’re relieved that we didn’t get hit by that particular truck? 

People are constantly failing, and when they’re not failing they’re enjoying the failure of others (otherwise known as “not trying”).  The only real answer, I guess, is to somehow find a way or perhaps even fool yourself into enjoying your own failure.  It’s possible that “enjoying your own failure” might even be the purest definition of success, and even more possible that I’m talking out of my ass.  Anyway, everybody making fun of everything all the time, while fun sometimes, has been going on for too long and is getting to be a little much.  Awhile ago I bought a stack of old, late 80’s era People magazines at a church rummage sale, and in looking through the film and TV reviews I was struck by how the critics simply gave their opinion of the movie or program, without a single insult, hip joke, fourth-wall-breaking zinger, supposedly self-deprecating comment pointing out how bad that zinger was (“See what I did there?”) hoping to salvage any laughs the previous lame joke purposefully failed to elicit, or unrelated pop culture reference (all of which is, without question, shit that I am, and will no doubt continue to be, guilty of from time to numerous time; otherwise I doubt I’d be this irritated).  It was a cool breeze of profound blandness.  I came away very refreshed, and have returned to Ralph Novak’s undynamic review of “Back to the Future II” several times. 

What exactly am I campaigning for here?  Anything?  Ease up on has-beens?  Maybe a little, but everyone needs a punching bag.  Bring back personalityless journalism?  Some do the “snarky” (of all the lousy contributions the “aughts” decade has seen fit to crap into our brains, that horrible, nonexistent word easily ranks among the crappiest; however, and unfortunately, it abstractly sums up what it sums up well) thing better than others, resulting in a smart and funny read (Nathan Rabin of the AV Club springs immediately to mind).  I wouldn’t want that sort of thing to go away entirely, provided it’s done well.  Get rid of the Internet once and for all?  Absolutely not.  I’d have to go back to watching television and reading books.  The Internet, where we all are now, even our parents, is good at a lot of things, but sometimes it seems like it exists solely to point out that various aspects of life suck, including, but not limited to: you, I, and things.  All of which may be true, but given that we’re obviously all too chicken to kill ourselves, maybe we could spend a little time determining and concentrating on what we enjoy about life, and even taking away something useful, if not enjoyable, from the shit parts.  Enjoying oneself can be the hardest thing in the world, and whether it’s disguised or even intended as a lighthearted goof or not, a constant string of words humorously belittling almost everything can over time wear on one just as much as a person who flat out hates your guts yelling in your face for six hours. 

I never used to like the concept of moderation.  Now I practically crave it.  A little bit of everything is nice.  No bandwagons.  Dial it down.  I’m trying to do the same, with limited but (I hope) perceptible success.  In any event, benefit from my words and do as I say! 

In closing, no more making fun of Chevy Chase or I will mail you dung.


Posted in Helpful Advice For Numbnutses, Mundane Events on March 8, 2009 by butthorn

I find it very difficult to keep a living space clean. I don’t know how people do it.  I’m no Mr. Clean, but after awhile seeing underpants hanging off every obliquely hooklike apparatus in the house and a sink full of dishes piled in the most fetid and potentially expensive game of Jenga ever gets to be a little depressing to me.  It dawns on me that if you want a clean house, you pretty much have to do at least a little cleaning on a daily basis.  This saddens me.  

Adding to the hardness of cleaning in our case is a kitchen sink that still isn’t working right and a lack of convenient laundry machines.  We are not at all far away from the laundromat, but putting all of our smelly clothing into a car isn’t something I like to do for fun.  Plus, while I am assuredly every bit as poverty-stricken, if not moreso, than the majority of the townsfolk patronizing our laundromat, I am also, I feel, far more attractive, and in selecting my attire for this particular errand I typically don’t elect to don stained yellow sweatpants that accentuate my crevices.  

I say this not to belittle my fellow duds-sudsers.  Would it be belitting to a banana to inform it that it is rich in potassium?  No; it would simply be a mutually understood truth, much like the fact that everyone who goes to our laundromat besides myself is gross and upsetting to spend time with.  I’m not saying that I expect to encounter “Brangelina” every time I go to the laundromat, nor am I suggesting that we all get gussied up in our Sunday’s best, tame our curlicues and cowlicks with a dite of pomatum, and promenade to the clothes cleaners with a hey nonny nonny and a hot-cha-cha.  I also don’t want to imply that I routinely talk to bananas.  What I’m mostly saying, in essence, is that I am a judgmental asswipe.  Pay my hurtful jibes no mind.

These unkind comments stem at least partially from a form of jealousy.  I wish I could be cavalier enough to appear in public in whatever frumpy thing I happened to be lounging around in before I left the house.  I have no problem going to the store unshowered (although I’ll probably put on a hat if I haven’t had a haircut in awhile), but the young folks galumphing around the video or grocery store in their pjs alternately blow my mind and disgust me.  At first, there was an admittedly scandalous pleasure to be had in the opportunity to witness unfamiliar young women trawling for romantic new releases or yogurt in their nightclothes, but over time it somehow became akin in my mind to toddling around in a lumpy, soiled diaper.  Decidedly less titillating.  Where I once begrudgingly admired the youthful lack of decorum, I now think it looks kinda dumb, yet still sort of wish I too had the cajones to pull it off.  Pajamas are comfy, no question.  

Furthermore, at the risk of channeling noted observational comic Jerry Seinfeld, why is it that washing machines which do not belong to you can only be activated through the use of quarters?  Now I’m not one of those sniffy coin-disdainers who feels that metal commerce should be eradicated.  I find coins to be both folksy and historically significant.  They actually feel like currency, unlike our increasingly gawky-looking paper monies and especially unlike the act of zipping a plastic card through an electronic numberpad thing that is probably gleaning data that can be covertly used against me by desperate and insidious financial institutions, or perhaps even to invisibly emboss the mark of the beast upon my debit card in order to better serve the angel of the bottomless pit.  I’m sure 75% of people who like to look at coins are off-putting nerds who fantasize about rolling lewdly in piles of ha’pennies and farthings with the supporting cast of “Sailor Moon”, and the other 25% inherited their coins from a elder coin-dandling relative and are just keeping them because they feel bad or because it’s inconvenient for them to make a special trip to the nearest collectibles establishment, but all the same I think coins are kind of cool.  However, they also weigh down your pants, make your hand smell bad, and lengthen the payment process considerably on account of being worth basically nothing.  I don’t like having to go to a machine or person to get a green piece of paper, then put that green piece of paper into another machine that turns the paper into forty metal circles, then clunk those forty metal circles into another machine that actually washes my clothes.  If I must continue to rely on a communally accessed, unflatteringly lit waystation to freshen my apparel, can’t I be granted access to a washing machine that will simply accept my debit card, thereby eliminating several annoying steps in the laundry process and providing useful information to the antichrist concerning my spending habits?  Such machines no doubt exist in more upscale markets.  (Ed.: I later Googled “credit card laundromat washing machine” in an attempt to find out if such machines do in fact exist, and for my efforts I was rewarded with, you guessed it, a picture of Eric Clapton)  But bitch bitch bitch.  I suppose I should be happy to have clothes to wear at all.  But I’m not.  Buy me a washing machine, a dryer, and a house to put them both in, please and thank you.  

Other drawbacks to washing your clothes, in no particular order: detergent is sticky, dryer sheets are stupid, wet clothes are heavy, and folding is boring.  Good things about laundry: the inexplicable mild fun of cleaning the lint trap, putting on warm pajamas right out of the dryer, watching your favorite tee-shirt tumble by in the dryer window, and the comforting knowledge that you won’t have to walk around smelling like an armpit with a turd squashed into it for the next week or so.  

Adding to my laundry woes today is an extremely muddy driveway that was yucky to walk through!  I took it upon myself to take several photographs of it.  Look at them!


Yes, mud!  Look at it!  Look!


That’s some wet, brown mud!  


I’m absolutely, positively wild about mud!  Actually, I’m not all that fond of it.  But I’m happy to see it.  It’s been very nice outside lately, and the snow and ice are probably about done for the year, for the most part.  I’ll gladly accept mud as a harbinger of better weather to come.  But our yard is like walking through freshly baked Duncan Hines right now.  Carrying a cumbersome basket of pointedly unfolded garments across such a terrain is no easy feat.  

Not to mention our stairs.  


Dear God, the stairs.  The few of you who have had the pleasure of visiting our humble apartment can attest to the terror that accompanies the uneasy ascension of these stairs.  Creaky, splintery, and sure to collapse beneath our unwary feet any day now.  If you listen carefully, each stair actually whispers the word “rickety” as you impress your weight upon it.  How would you like to move a sofa, an entertainment center, and an antique bureau up these bad boys?  Yeah, thought so.  My family and I lived to tell that suspenseful tale.  We’re not much to look at, but when in a bind we get the job done.  Anyway, yes, one day we will fall down these stairs and we will die.

At least when you get to the top, there’s a nice little quasi-deck to set the laundry basket down upon while unlocking the door.  On that deck are a couple of lawn chairs and the remnants of two plants.  Let’s look at that, as I like posting unprofessional pictures of less-than-dynamic subjects.


Plants are hard.  The hell with ’em.  Maintenance and nurturing are for the birds.  With any luck, someday I’ll be able to post a similar picture of a emaciated child sprawled on the front deck.   “But officer, I did not want to feed him, and he liked being outside.”  


Here’s the other plant we had that for some reason failed to thrive despite our never watering it and leaving it outside all winter.  I poured the dregs of a Coors Lite into it this afternoon; maybe that’ll help?  That butter knife has been there for nigh on a year now, and I’ve never had the slightest idea as to why.  

Well, after all that, I did get a goodly portion of our wardrobe cleansed today, and for my efforts I rewarded myself with a tasty carton of birds.


KFC is the place for me!  Plus a taco, mmm-mmmm!  My intestines are currently making a poop out of that stuff, but boy it was good, right down to the gluey coleslaw and flaccid, see-thru tortilla.


Eatin’ food and playing Animal Crossing.  Just give yourself a nice treat at the end of a tough job, and the entire experience becomes worthwhile.  You gotta work, and you gotta play, and that’s all there is to it.  

Later we had to go drop one of our cars off at the mechanic’s because it’s making loud noises that sound like a dinosaur on a motorcycle caught in a jet engine.  I was going to take a picture of our mechanic’s workplace and general premises, to share its ramshackle charms with my readers, but in my haste I failed to do so.  So I took a picture of the hot dogs I bought for my wife at the gas station on the ride home instead:


Take ‘er easy!


Posted in Uncategorized on March 1, 2009 by butthorn

I have been sick with a cold or some shitty thing for the past few days.  I don’t get sick all that often, and I always forget how much it sucks.  When I learn that someone I know is sick, I often feel at least a slight jealousy, knowing that person can shirk responsibility in favor of lying in bed watching gameshows and cartoons and funny infomercials all day.  I forget about the part where both consciousness and unconsciousness are at least ten times more horrible than usual from every possible aspect for a indeterminate period of time and there is not much you can do about any of it.  

All of the things I like to do involve brightly lit electronic screens, all of which have been hurting my eyes bad.  I have a Target bag full of mucus beside my bed as I type this.  My mouth tastes like a thousand wet farts from multiple donors, and nothing I encounter makes a lick of sense.  In the shower I had to stare at the body wash for a good thirty seconds before I realized that it was not shampoo, and normally it only takes me about ten seconds to figure this out.  I slept pretty much nonstop from early Friday afternoon after coming home early from work to late this morning, but there was little genuine rest to be had because I worked my ass off in my dreams, repeatedly solving inconvenient and unglamorous mysteries for one dream person after another.  Thanks, Coricidin.  

I feel a bit better today, though.  A nice big “Snowmobiler’s Breakfast” from Dysart’s may ultimately have been the thing that cured me.  The power of bacon and eggs should never be pooh-poohed.  Even the most slapped-together, lovelessly prepared breakfast (so long as it features actual breakfast foods, and not, say, cat heads and rocks) will in every situation make you feel better than you did before you sat down to eat it.  To prove it, I’ll google “worst breakfast in the history of mankind” and I guarantee you it won’t look all that bad.


You know what, Google and I are about done.  I don’t think Google is even looking at what I’m typing into its thing anymore.  It’s just throwing any old concept at me.  Seriously, let’s say you and I are having a friendly chat, and one way or another we end up on the subject of gross breakfasts we’ve been subjected to in the past, and I, being the curious type, ask “Say, if someone held a gun to your head and asked you what the worst breakfast you ever had consisted of, what do you suppose your response would be, in such a particular and deadly situation?”.  Would there be any circumstances under which you, a perfectly intelligent human being, would reply “Why, I can answer that in .11 seconds!  The worst breakfast I ever had in my life would, without a doubt, have to be the 1995 knockabout Damon Wayans vehicle ‘Major Payne’ “?  That is not an acceptable answer to the question I posed.  

But then again, what do I really know of Google’s past, let alone what terrible breakfasts it may have been served in the past?  If there came to pass a morn in which I sat down to a breakfast prepared by my wife, and she placed in front of me a plate with a DVD of “Major Payne” on it, I would more than likely dub it then and thereafter the worst breakfast in the history of mankind.  I daresay even Cream of Wheat is better tasting than “Major Payne”.  So it’s looking like I’m not able to count Google out just yet as a useful resource for looking stuff up, although you really have to make an effort to find the logic in its results.  But in any event the above scenario is ridiculous and hardly worth considering.  My wife would never make me breakfast.  

Jeez, sick blogging is a waste of time for all concerned.  Let me get you a picture of a real breakfast to make up for it.  


There, that don’t look too bad.  I’d cut back on the onions.  Otherwise, that looks pretty good.  You know, finding a picture of a tasty looking breakfast online is a more difficult task than you may imagine!  There are a lot of losers out there who seem to think that fruit is a thing that belongs on a breakfast plate.  Fruit should be exclusively used as punishment for children who have misbehaved and are now requesting a chocolate dessert.  The only fruit I want on my breakfast plate is the tomato in the ketchup with which I’ve drowned my aborted chicks.  They never got to know life, but I got to eat them, so who cares!  

Seriously, here are some of the things people are calling breakfast:


Whoa!  Wowie!  Okay, that’s sort of beautiful, I guess, but that’s not breakfast.  I only trust various shades of yellow and brown when it comes to breakfast.  Wee-wee and poot coloring only for my morning meal, please and thank you.  Rainbows are for candy.  Nobody likes limp, fruitwatery French toast.  Looks like someone actually sliced a single green grape in half and flopped in on the top there for a garnish.  There’s an idea.  Not a good one, but, well, one.  This is an artless, overconsidered mess!  And the butter should be in a little bowl beside the pancakes or in individual packets, not glopped onto the top pancake like a melting beige baby toad.  If you ever ask anyone for breakfast and they give you this, heave it at their pants and angrily demand something more suitable.  You might think about tacking on a sarcastic comment as they shamefacedly head back into the kitchen, something like “Why don’tcha just give me a DVD of ‘Major Payne’ while you’re at it?”.  That’ll be the snide cherry on the comeuppance sundae.  


Gahhh!  Dammit!  This affront to everything everywhere is what’s known as an “English breakfast”.  Leave it to the Brits to ruin breakfast.  This picture hurts my feelings.  That lonely sausage to the right there is the only thing on the plate that looks worth bothering with, and that would be solely out of politeness.  Blah.  This breakfast is like watching a tape of the first time anyone ever picked on you.  I’m all for baked beans at breakfast, but not when they’re swimming in a creamed blood brine.  Everything about this breakfast screams malfeasance.  The two tiny tomato slices are weird and somewhat insulting, and the mushrooms on top border on gross sexual misconduct.  The eggs look like crap.  Like a new kind of egg invented by jerks.  I’m not the world’s biggest ham fan, but if I order a breakfast and either don’t notice ham is included or forget to ask for a substitution, I’ll eat the ham.  Hog flesh of any sort goes well with breakfast.  But that ham looks bad, man.  Looks like you could blow a bubble with it.  Fuck that ham.  


This horrendous picture of a cat is what comes up when you google “wonderful breakfast”, by the way.  Again, I have never eaten that cat during the morning hours.  It might taste wonderful.  I’m working overtime here to give Google the benefit of the doubt.


This is what happens when you begin to express interest in the cuisine of other countries.  If a plate of this had been placed in front of me at my table at Dysart’s today, I would have started screaming while looking back and forth at the waitress and the food repeatedly until they took it away.  For all I know that could be delicious, but I know for a fact that if I put even one forkful of this into my mouth, I’m pretty sure my intestines would become sentient and consciously straighten themselves in an effort to expedite the “breakfast’s” journey from esophagus to tooter.  So essentially I’d take a bite, become twenty feet tall for a few seconds, then shit on the floor.  At best, I’d be banned from Dysart’s.  


God, I hate it when people try to get cute.  You see where creativity gets you, kids?  Embarrassing breakfasts and the scorn of observant bloggers.  I’d rather eat eleven filthy medallions than these bilious cross-sections of terror.  P.U.!

I apologize (but do not sympathize) if any of these breakfasts look good to you.  It takes all kinds.  One man’s suicide impetus is another man’s breakfast.  Call me unadventurous and closed-minded (and I’ll nod sadly as these days I find it’s a fairly accurate assessment), but when it comes to breakfast, make mine as conservative and down the middle as possible.  A hearty American breakfast, that I could enjoy at a booth with George Washington, Jimmy Stewart, Ronald Reagan, and Rambo.  


There we go.  Throw on some toast, maybe a nice muffin, some orange juice and coffee, and by cracky you’re starting the day with a bounce in your boots and gobs o’ gumption in your get-up-and-go.  I never eat it during its intended hour of the day, but no meal fills me with more anticipation beforehand and contentment afterwards.  I give it an A+, and I don’t hand those out willy-nilly.  So if you’re feeling poorly and have a few bucks or a few eggs, why not rustle yourself up some good old-fashioned breakfast?  It makes supper look like a school bus accident.  

One more!


That’s the ticket!  Have one on me!  That’s just a figure of speech; I am not going to buy you breakfast.