Bacon Flavored Man Chow, Headlines We’ll Never See, and Sarcastic?- Me?

I don’t understand the male fascination with bacon.  Bacon is one of those things that I can eat- in small quantities- but I generally don’t because it is always greasy, and generally always disgustingly salty.  It’s fine crumbled up in potato soup but that’s about it.  Salt and grease are generally not items one wants in the diet in any kind of quantity.  Dogs like bacon too, but they are generally not known for having great culinary requirements.  Any creature who will dine on carrion and dumpster droppings generally is not reliable as a food critic.  George Carlin once questioned, (in reference to cats and “gourmet” cat food, but the principle still applies,)  “How many gourmets lick their own ass?”

When Steve-o, the illustrious Precious Only Male Child, was about four or five he went through an extreme picky eater stage.  No meat, no eggs, no vegetables.  Of course he would eat bacon – perhaps not realizing that “meat candy” is actually made of meat, or what was meat at one time.  I could only get milk down him by putting Hershey’s syrup in it.  The only vitamins he got are whatever vitamins lurk in Pop Tarts, Domino’s Pizza, Mountain Dew, and if I was lucky, ramen noodles.   It was also just my luck that the POMC was tall and large framed- and his picky eating habits were making him “thin for his height” which I got to hear incessantly at every Dr. visit from the time he was four until he was about eleven.  Most people get read the riot act because their kids are lard asses, but I never had that problem.

I got mixed messages from the Dr.s though.  Yes he was thin, yes, he needed more calories to avoid looking like a very white starving African child, but I shouldn’t cater to his demands.  “If he’s hungry enough he’ll eat eventually,” was one response.  Then I was warned, “Do you know how many men I see in my practice who will only eat hot dogs and hamburgers because their mothers fixed them special meals and didn’t make them eat a variety of foods?”

Calling raw broccoli “little trees,” and even dunking them in ranch dressing didn’t work.  He would just suck the ranch dressing off them.  I did get him to the point where he will eat a few meats- the value brand turkey lunch meat from Kroger’s, chicken wings (atomic sauce with plenty of ranch dressing,) medium-rare steak, and Arby’s roast beef.  I don’t think I’ve seen him eat a vegetable- at least not of his own volition- other than fries and ketchup. 

Steve-o was smarter than all that noise.  If he didn’t like something he wasn’t going to eat it, and no one was going to make him.  He would just wait until he was at school or at the sitter’s and then he would either mooch, or trade things for the food he wanted.   He learned the negotiatory arts at a very early age.   There were too many kids at school and at his sitter’s willing to procure him whatever goodies he wanted.  Never mind that Mom- who made us eat granola that resembled dog food in more ways than one for breakfast while other kids sucked down their Froot Loops and Cocoa Krispies-would buy him boxes and boxes of Pop Tarts and then let him free forage in the kitchen for chow.  I am not sure if spray cheese has any nutritional value but I quit buying it when I discovered why the cans turned up empty as soon as they landed in the cabinet.  Spray cheese is just too easy a man food.  Just tilt back your head, spray and swallow.  Steve-o would snarf down the whole can.

Jerry is just as bad if not worse about being a fussy eater.  He will eat vegetables and meat, but for him it’s more about the method of preparation and the spices (or hopeless lack thereof) involved.  Jerry prefers fried food with lots of salt and grease.  He does not like healthy things such as brown bread, baked meats, or anything with red sauce.  He does not like garlic or spicy things. 

But he adores bacon.  The Universal Man Food.

So if it works for the folks at Purina- “dogs don’t know it’s not bacon”- (technically that is a double negative, so apparently they do know it’s not bacon-but- the thing is they’re dogs, and a rotten possum ass will work just fine for them) then how can you expect a man with beer-addled brain cells to know the difference?

Why can’t Purina or some other food-type company come up with something sort of like the Beggin’ Strip, but the difference being it looks like bacon, smells like bacon, but is a completely nutritionally balanced food with all the vitamins and protein and fiber that men won’t eat voluntarily?  It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

“What am I gonna eeeeeeat?’ (yes, Jerry does whine like this.)

“I got you Bacon-Flavored Man Chow- it’s in the cabinet!”

“Cool,” he replies as he rips open the bag and starts sucking down those bacon-flavored strips.

I’ve always wondered why I’ve never seen women’s sumo wrestling.  I’ve been to Newark, OH.  I used to work there, and one of the perks was the fact that  clothes in my size were always marked down in the local stores- because there was no demand for any women’s clothing smaller than a 4X.  I know women get big enough to sumo wrestle, but you never see Women’s Sumo Championship in the headlines.  If men will pay money to watch skinny bimbos roll around in the mud, then why not pay to watch fat chicks sumo wrestle?  I’m sure they can make those diapers in size 20 underwear size.

Another headline that will probably never appear in my lifetime: Asian Driver Wins NASCAR Race.  Asians are too smart for NASCAR, and typically they drive slow enough to make me look like something out of Smokey and the Bandit.  For those who don’t know how conservatively I drive, I can just imagine Wang commenting to his wife Lee, “Oh, horry clap, she’s goring 62 in a 65!”

I really try not to follow politics too closely because I know how riled up I can get when I do.   I really can’t stand the current POTUS for a number of reasons none of which have to do with his race.  First of all I am not convinced he is even eligible to hold the office of president (his birth certificate is about as convincing as the one I fabricated for Sheena) and even should he be deemed eligible, he’s the Worst President Since Jimmy Carter.

B.O. Must GO!  Here’s my new bumper sticker.

Then again I shouldn’t insult Jimmy Carter like that.  Jimmy at least was an American citizen, a war veteran, and a Christian.  Where he got some of his crazy ideas I’ll never know, but at least with Jimmy his heart was in the right place even if his head was up his ass.  Obama has no heart, and I don’t think even installing a glass belly button would help him see daylight.  Where the hell did the Dumb-o-crats find this asshole and how did they get that many people- other than dead people, illegal aliens and felons- to vote for him?  As much as I am not thrilled about Mitt Romney, I’d vote for him over Obama any day.  I’d vote for Sheena, even though she’s a mentally challenged dog, rather than Obama.   At least Sheena wouldn’t try to block the pipeline and/or keep the US from using our domestic resources.  She does lick her own ass, she’s not above eating out of the trash, and she refuses to wear clothing ,which might not be hot selling points in her bid to be elected- but compared to B. O., Sheena’s a shining star of virtue.

I knew better.  Talking about politics always gets me good and pissed off – and plenty sarcastic.  As if I need help in that.

Funky Food, Shutting Up Is Hard to Do, and Some Cheese for That Whine?

This sign is from the frozen custard shop across the street.  Frozen custard is somewhat like ice cream or frozen yogurt only a bit thicker.  I have not ventured to try the chicken salad boat.   The sign simply struck me funny for two reasons- one, that it would have been a lot funnier had they been extolling the wonders of a tuna salad boat, (I simply adore double entendre as a form of humor,) and that chocolate covered strawberry anything does not generally go well with meat salads.  The chocolate covered strawberry frozen custard is good, but not necessarily with a chicken salad boat.

I am not a huge fan of meat salads, as most of the time they are usually made with vast quantities of mayonnaise.  I am not a picky eater for the most part, but there’s something about mayonnaise that gags me.  When I make tuna salad for my own consumption there is usually more mustard in it than mayonnaise, and the only mayonnaise I use is the low fat Miracle Whip, which doesn’t taste so much like congealed lard.

One fun food I have actually tried- and like- is spaghetti tacos.  Spaghetti in a taco shell, while messy, is quite tasty.

That makes me hungry just looking at it.

Jerry has been on a roll this weekend, and not in a good way.  I shouldn’t have indulged him.  I felt guilty about avoiding driving him around on his little forays into garage sale land the past couple of Saturdays, so I got up early, (forgoing my much anticipated Saturday nap,) fixed him breakfast, and took him out for six hours of delightful incessant bitching as we were trolling for garage sales in the wind and rain.  The only bright spot in that for him was that he did finally find a lawn mower, though it’s not quite what he wants.  I did find a nice long black sweater which I had been looking for but hadn’t been able to find in my size and/or price range.

But there’s only so much whining even I can take.  I know I’m in trouble when I just plain tune him out as he prattles on and on about how he doesn’t like his shoes (his own damned fault for buying those cheap ass velcro sneakers from Wal Mart) and I don’t do _________the right way or I do too much___________ or not enough_________ .  I’ve already tuned out all of his commentary on my driving.  That’s automatic, otherwise I would have to reach over and throttle him good.   I have driven many more thousands of miles than he has in my lifetime, AND, I wasn’t the one who got completely shit faced at the hell hole the previous evening.  I didn’t wake up forty proof.  If he had chosen to drive yesterday morning, he could have still got popped for DUI.   It would have been a miracle to find blood in his alcohol stream. As the sober one,  as far as I’m concerned, if I’m driving, I have the express privilege of ignoring all the drunken whiner’s comments.

I will say about the cheapo Wal Mart shoes, that he gets what he deserves for refusing to wear the good New Balance shoes I bought him.  At least I was able to send the New Balance shoes back and recoup my $70.  He can do a Howard Hughes and wear Kleenex boxes on his feet for all I care if he wants to be that way.

Jerry has continued his whiny diatribe into today.  I should have known better than to waste my time fixing him breakfast (again.)

But I don’t want hash and fried potatoes…”  He wanted to say it, but I think some little glitter of intelligence way back in the reptilian part of his brain warned him that if he did, I would smack him into next Tuesday.  He didn’t need to say it.  He just ate a couple of bites-reminiscent of Pee Wee Herman eating breakfast cereal (Mr. T Cereal, to be exact)  in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, then gave the rest of it to the dogs.  I’m sure he laid some kind of sob story on his Mom to end up coming home from her house with a big bowl of pinto beans and cornbread.  Fine.  If she feeds him, I don’t have to listen to him whine about the food.  The irony is that his Mom could give him dog food and he’d like it, and I could give him shrimp and steak and he would bitch about it.  More fun with yet another POMC.  I hope I’ve done a better job with mine.  At least Steve-o knows better than to pull the whiny shit with me.

Now he is engaged in the Dandelion War again- running around with the pesticide sprayer in thirty mile an hour winds like some deranged mental case thinking he’s going to make the yard look better than the insurance agency next door- never mind that they can afford to hire a team of Mexican landscapers to do their yard work.

All that hard work so the freakazoids from the Drunk and Domestics can use the yard as their personal disposal for their cig packs, food wrappers, drinky cups and, yes, trucker bombs.

At least if he’s outside I can’t hear him whine.

If Jerry whines in the forest and nobody hears him, is he still whining?

I would say yes.  If he’s breathing and conscious, he’s whining.

I have some Colby cheese in the fridge for him but a.) he might have to look behind something, guaranteeing he won’t find it, or b.) he won’t want Colby cheese, or he might refuse to eat the store brand.


Clara is not amused.  Clara has no problem eating store brand cheese.

Antique Cartography, Funky Facts, and I Don’t Take Requests

 

To satisfy my curiosity,I had to see if I could find any early 20th century railroad maps of the US and more specifically, Ohio, so I could see the five points railroad connections in Marion for myself.  The proof I was looking for is here in a 1914 Ohio railway map.  The five points where the rail lines come together in Marion are clearly visible on the 1914 map.  It is still possible to see the Five Points area today, only now its primary identifying landmark is a beer drive-thru.  There is a big difference between the 1914 map and the 2009 map .  Many of those old rail lines were abandoned and pulled up in the early ’80’s.

I like to look at old maps, especially 19th century ones, because they are relatively accurate as far as topography and scale, and they are painfully detailed in the inclusion of place names.  They are also hand-drawn and far more aesthetically pleasing to look at than modern maps.  Of course some of the place names on the old maps are nothing but someone’s cornfield today, but it’s interesting to see the population shifts.  Everyone wants to live in the city.  I can’t say I blame anyone for that.  Living out in the middle of nowhere has its advantages- especially that of privacy and not having to contend with crowds and traffic and the assorted accumulations of dingleberries one encounters in the city, but the major disadvantages come into play when the weather is too bad for road trips and/or one is ill.   Getting health care is bad enough in the city- where you get the royal runaround to get care, you have to deal with way too many people and way too much bureaucratic BS, and when you finally can get things scheduled and arranged, you pay out the wazoo for it.  But health care in the rural backwaters is even harder to get (try finding a Dr. that speaks remotely intelligible English – if you can find a Dr. to begin with-in the sticks) and a good deal of the time basic health services are either non-existent or pitifully inadequate.  Most of the time if you live in the sticks, it’s worth the drive to the city for health care.  Make the road trip, trust me.  But if someone in the sticks needs trauma care, that person is pretty much SOL if the nearest trauma center is 100 miles or more away. 

Sometimes I find the trend to centralize everything to be a bit aggravating.  I understand that it makes better sense to have a large amount of resources in one location, but the logistics don’t always work out as planned.  What’s the point of  “one stop shopping” if the one stop is unnavigable because of the sheer size of the place and from the volume of the teeming crowds who are also trying to squeeze in to get their crud?  When I go to the grocery, especially when I am on time constraints, it’s always my luck that the two old bitties standing around socializing in the dairy section are standing directly in front of the milk cooler door, in front of that gallon of  2% that I need to get.  If you’re going to piddle around in the store, stand in front of something nobody buys, or at least stand in front of something I don’t need to buy.  Go hang out in the condom aisle, or in the candy aisle, or the adult diaper section, or somewhere other than in front of the 2% milk, if you must stand about and chit-chat.  Please don’t block the staple items…but they always do.  Sometimes it takes an Act of God to keep my mouth shut when I want to simply scream, “Would you mind moving your fat asses! I’m trying to get my shit and get out of here!”   Going to the behemoth Kroger store is an undertaking.  I can get almost everything I need there, but sometimes I don’t need to get everything.  Do I really want to wander about for half a mile through this behemoth store, dodging screaming, uncontrolled rugrats, and trying to evade the free sample ladies because I need a gallon of milk, or because the Dingleberry decided he just has to have the one entree item that I don’t already have in the freezer?

I can hear it now. “But I don’t want tilapia filets.  I want catfish nuggets!” 

Never mind that tilapia was on sale and catfish wasn’t.   In my mind it’s logical to get the sale meat or the sale fish rather than to pay up the wazoo for catfish when it’s not on sale, but tilapia is on sale.  I get chicken breast when it’s on sale, pork chops when they’re on sale, beef roast when it’s on sale.  I don’t like paying retail for meat.  If pork chops are on sale then it’s pork chops instead of beef roast or chicken if they’re not on sale.  How hard is that?

Bucko, you’re getting tilapia. Eat it and like it.  It’s raised in the farm ponds just like catfish is.  Maybe catfish will be on sale next week, but for now, improvise, adapt and overcome.  As Mom always used to tell us:  “Thank God you have food.”  If I could learn to thank God for mashed potatoes with big burnt black chunks in them and a vile version of tuna casserole that I strongly believe killed Suzie the Dachshund at the relatively early age of seven, (I still feel guilty about that, because I liked Suzie,) then you can thank God for grilled tilapia.  You can also thank God that, unlike my mother, I can actually cook.