Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunday, October 26, 2008
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!
Found this guy in my yard yesterday.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!
That is all.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!
That is all.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Total Dipshit Parking Lot
Dear Dipshits-In-Parking-Lots,
I hate you.
No, I really do mean it. I hate all of you.
You know who I hate the most? Dipshits in cars. I especially hate you dipshits in cars who feel it necessary to back into your parking spaces. Oh, by all means, puh-LEEZE take your time slooooowly backing in at sliiiiightly too much of an angle and then pulling fooorward and pulling baaack and forward and back and forwardandback until you have your stupid little turdbox-on-wheels placed precisely dead-center between the white lines. Never mind that I have a class to get to and I have to whizz and there is a line of traffic out into the street because you can’t be bothered to pull in nose-first like a normal person. Oops! Did you hear that? Someone’s water just broke behind me, you asspipe, and when she first pulled into the parking lot she wasn’t even in her third trimester.
Above(From L-R): Dipshit-on-Phone, Normal Person's car, Normal Person's car, Asspipe's turdbox-on-wheels
What? It’s a military thing? Well, I don’t care. Does this look like Fort Bragg? Do I look like Sergeant Carter? Are we on the set of “Francis Joins the WACS”? No? Well, shut up then. I was not put on this Earth to be an audience for your parking skills. In case you were wondering, I do not feel it is worth wasting even seconds of my time waiting for you to park ass-backwards just so you can squeal out of the parking lot like Speed Buggy's mentally challenged cousin.
You know who else I hate? Other dipshits in cars. Imagine, if you will, the following scenario…. You have parked in a spot that has several empty spaces on your passenger side. You have walked around to your passenger side, opened the door, put your coffee on the roof, and have pulled a bunch of books and papers out of your bag to reorganize. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a car waiting to pull into the spot next to yours. You turn around and look long and hard at the five empty spaces next to you. You turn back toward the driver, whose car has yet to move. Her mouth, however, is moving rapidly, and she is making exasperated hand gestures at you. You squint real hard, tilt your head ever-so-slightly, and let your jaw slacken a bit, creating an expression that you hope conveys, “Well, I’ll be damned if you aren’t just the shit-all stupidest and laziest person in this universe and the next one over.” Suddenly you realize that no one could possibly be that shit-all stupid and lazy. There is obviously some reasonable explanation, like maybe she has a gammy leg or a hunchback or hammertoes. You feel a little ashamed as you close your door and flatten yourself against it so that she can pull in, bless her heart. But then she gets out of the car, revealing that her gams are not gammy, her back is not hunchy, and her toes are not hammery. She sighs heavily and glares and shakes her head at you (her bitch is quite bitchy), and you hate, hate, hatehatehatehatehate her as she struts off to class, which is now a full 36 inches closer to her than it would have been had she parked one whole space to the right.
Also, I hate dipshits in pickup trucks, especially ones that have “REDNECK” vanity plates. I hate these dipshits because they are idiots. I also hate them because they are rednecks, but mostly because they are idiots. At this point I should probably point out that I realize there is only one guy in North Carolina with a license plate that says “REDNECK” on it. (I hate that guy ever so much.) So, no big deal, right? Wrong! Think about it. It’s a pretty safe bet that there is one person in every state with a license plate that says “REDNECK” on it, so that makes 50 idiots nationwide. Then you’ve got to figure in all the other idiots in those 50 states who had that same idea, but just a little bit too late. These people are even bigger idiots, because they shelled out good money for plates that say, “REDNCK”, “RADNACK”, “RIDNICK”, “RDNCK”, and “RDNK” on them, not to mention the countless stick-stupid idiots with plates reading “RDNK1”, “RDNK2”, “RDNK3”, etc.. Dipshits-In-Pickup-Trucks, I beseech you to stop this ridiculousness immediately. You are embarrassing your dipshit redneck ancestors.
Thank you for your kind attention, Dipshits-In-Parking-Lots. Do tune in for my next installment, in which I will surely hate more of you.
Cheers!
Storchy
I hate you.
No, I really do mean it. I hate all of you.
You know who I hate the most? Dipshits in cars. I especially hate you dipshits in cars who feel it necessary to back into your parking spaces. Oh, by all means, puh-LEEZE take your time slooooowly backing in at sliiiiightly too much of an angle and then pulling fooorward and pulling baaack and forward and back and forwardandback until you have your stupid little turdbox-on-wheels placed precisely dead-center between the white lines. Never mind that I have a class to get to and I have to whizz and there is a line of traffic out into the street because you can’t be bothered to pull in nose-first like a normal person. Oops! Did you hear that? Someone’s water just broke behind me, you asspipe, and when she first pulled into the parking lot she wasn’t even in her third trimester.
Above(From L-R): Dipshit-on-Phone, Normal Person's car, Normal Person's car, Asspipe's turdbox-on-wheels
What? It’s a military thing? Well, I don’t care. Does this look like Fort Bragg? Do I look like Sergeant Carter? Are we on the set of “Francis Joins the WACS”? No? Well, shut up then. I was not put on this Earth to be an audience for your parking skills. In case you were wondering, I do not feel it is worth wasting even seconds of my time waiting for you to park ass-backwards just so you can squeal out of the parking lot like Speed Buggy's mentally challenged cousin.
You know who else I hate? Other dipshits in cars. Imagine, if you will, the following scenario…. You have parked in a spot that has several empty spaces on your passenger side. You have walked around to your passenger side, opened the door, put your coffee on the roof, and have pulled a bunch of books and papers out of your bag to reorganize. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a car waiting to pull into the spot next to yours. You turn around and look long and hard at the five empty spaces next to you. You turn back toward the driver, whose car has yet to move. Her mouth, however, is moving rapidly, and she is making exasperated hand gestures at you. You squint real hard, tilt your head ever-so-slightly, and let your jaw slacken a bit, creating an expression that you hope conveys, “Well, I’ll be damned if you aren’t just the shit-all stupidest and laziest person in this universe and the next one over.” Suddenly you realize that no one could possibly be that shit-all stupid and lazy. There is obviously some reasonable explanation, like maybe she has a gammy leg or a hunchback or hammertoes. You feel a little ashamed as you close your door and flatten yourself against it so that she can pull in, bless her heart. But then she gets out of the car, revealing that her gams are not gammy, her back is not hunchy, and her toes are not hammery. She sighs heavily and glares and shakes her head at you (her bitch is quite bitchy), and you hate, hate, hatehatehatehatehate her as she struts off to class, which is now a full 36 inches closer to her than it would have been had she parked one whole space to the right.
Also, I hate dipshits in pickup trucks, especially ones that have “REDNECK” vanity plates. I hate these dipshits because they are idiots. I also hate them because they are rednecks, but mostly because they are idiots. At this point I should probably point out that I realize there is only one guy in North Carolina with a license plate that says “REDNECK” on it. (I hate that guy ever so much.) So, no big deal, right? Wrong! Think about it. It’s a pretty safe bet that there is one person in every state with a license plate that says “REDNECK” on it, so that makes 50 idiots nationwide. Then you’ve got to figure in all the other idiots in those 50 states who had that same idea, but just a little bit too late. These people are even bigger idiots, because they shelled out good money for plates that say, “REDNCK”, “RADNACK”, “RIDNICK”, “RDNCK”, and “RDNK” on them, not to mention the countless stick-stupid idiots with plates reading “RDNK1”, “RDNK2”, “RDNK3”, etc.. Dipshits-In-Pickup-Trucks, I beseech you to stop this ridiculousness immediately. You are embarrassing your dipshit redneck ancestors.
Thank you for your kind attention, Dipshits-In-Parking-Lots. Do tune in for my next installment, in which I will surely hate more of you.
Cheers!
Storchy
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
And Storch-o Was Her Name-o
I just got into the shower and was all wet before I realized that the only soap handy was a bottle of lavender and mint "Buddy Wash" dog shampoo. So....
...I used it, and I'll be damned if my coat isn't a hell of a lot shinier than it was before. Thanks, Buddy Wash!
...I used it, and I'll be damned if my coat isn't a hell of a lot shinier than it was before. Thanks, Buddy Wash!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Dear MATC
July 6, 2008
Dear Milwaukee Area Technical College,
As you no doubt recall, I sent a transcript request to you on Friday June 6th and enclosed a check for $7.50 as per your instructions. I received my transcript promptly on Thursday June 12, and for that I applaud you. Thanks almost entirely to your commendable efficiency, I was accepted into the Carolina Student Transfer Excellence Program (C-STEP) and will be entering The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill as a full-time junior in the Fall of 2009. I could not have done this without you, my dear, dear MATC. (I may call you MATC, mayn’t I?)
Some nitpickniks would surely grouse about having to waste time writing a check for the perplexingly arbitrary amount of $7.50. Some nitpickniks might even go so far as to suggest that you were screwing with them just because you could. I, however, disagree with these nitpickniks. After all, if you really wanted to screw with us, you would have required that all transcript requests be written in Esperanto and payments be submitted entirely in Indian Head nickels or Rupees maybe. (In the event that you were, in fact, trying to screw with us and you are just incredibly bad at it, you may wish to write that one down for future reference. No, no...thank you.)
Because I am not a nitpicknik, I wrote my check for seven dollars and fifty one-hundredths without complaint. I tore it carefully along the perforation and wrapped it in a thoughtfully composed transcript request letter that was folded almost exactly in thirds. I folded it “almost exactly” in thirds so that the reader’s opposable digit would slip without effort under the flap, thus negating any need for the barbaric rubber thumb or, even worse, a real one coated in spittle. Then I crammed the whole mess into an envelope and threw it at the mailman.
I happily did all of this without complaint, MATC, and it is with some embarrassment that I broach the subject of my check, which, after 30 days, remains uncashed. Have I done something to offend you? Was $7.50 just a “suggested” contribution with the assumption that any good and decent person would surely enclose a more generous amount? Had you hoped for a crisp $20 bill taped to the inside of a glossy Hallmark card because cash is easy to pocket and your mom makes you deposit all the checks you receive into your savings account? Did you expect that I would enclose something a bit more thoughtful, like a gift certificate to your favorite spa or a poem that I had written myself? If so, I sincerely apologize for my inexcusably thoughtless gaucherie.
But if not, dear MATC, I most humbly request that you please cash my goddamn check.
Dear Milwaukee Area Technical College,
As you no doubt recall, I sent a transcript request to you on Friday June 6th and enclosed a check for $7.50 as per your instructions. I received my transcript promptly on Thursday June 12, and for that I applaud you. Thanks almost entirely to your commendable efficiency, I was accepted into the Carolina Student Transfer Excellence Program (C-STEP) and will be entering The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill as a full-time junior in the Fall of 2009. I could not have done this without you, my dear, dear MATC. (I may call you MATC, mayn’t I?)
Some nitpickniks would surely grouse about having to waste time writing a check for the perplexingly arbitrary amount of $7.50. Some nitpickniks might even go so far as to suggest that you were screwing with them just because you could. I, however, disagree with these nitpickniks. After all, if you really wanted to screw with us, you would have required that all transcript requests be written in Esperanto and payments be submitted entirely in Indian Head nickels or Rupees maybe. (In the event that you were, in fact, trying to screw with us and you are just incredibly bad at it, you may wish to write that one down for future reference. No, no...thank you.)
Because I am not a nitpicknik, I wrote my check for seven dollars and fifty one-hundredths without complaint. I tore it carefully along the perforation and wrapped it in a thoughtfully composed transcript request letter that was folded almost exactly in thirds. I folded it “almost exactly” in thirds so that the reader’s opposable digit would slip without effort under the flap, thus negating any need for the barbaric rubber thumb or, even worse, a real one coated in spittle. Then I crammed the whole mess into an envelope and threw it at the mailman.
I happily did all of this without complaint, MATC, and it is with some embarrassment that I broach the subject of my check, which, after 30 days, remains uncashed. Have I done something to offend you? Was $7.50 just a “suggested” contribution with the assumption that any good and decent person would surely enclose a more generous amount? Had you hoped for a crisp $20 bill taped to the inside of a glossy Hallmark card because cash is easy to pocket and your mom makes you deposit all the checks you receive into your savings account? Did you expect that I would enclose something a bit more thoughtful, like a gift certificate to your favorite spa or a poem that I had written myself? If so, I sincerely apologize for my inexcusably thoughtless gaucherie.
But if not, dear MATC, I most humbly request that you please cash my goddamn check.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Rollers Show
“In the future there will be no wars. But there will be . . . ROLLERBALL.”
That’s the tagline from the 1975 sci-fi masterpiece, Rollerball. This film provides what I can only assume is a stunningly accurate glimpse into the distant future -- the year 2018! -- when corporations rule the world, individuality is discouraged, and grown men on roller skates chase a silver ball around in circles and beat the living snot out of each other with spiked leather gloves that appear to have been purchased at Rob Halford’s Fist-O-Rama.
This film was a real eye-opener, let me tell you. I learned many, many things about the future, which I will now attempt to impart as a personal service to you, my endearingly ignorant and culturally starved readers.
In the future . . . sci-fi movies will drag along at a wounded snail’s pace.
In the future . . . James Caan’s mother will carefully pick out his clothes for him every morning.
In the future . . . chairs will be much too small to sit in comfortably.
In the future . . . all homes and corporate buildings will look like they were built in the seventies.
In the future . . . an exhumed John Houseman will return to the silver screen and torture fellow cast members with tedious braggadocio about his award-winning role in The Paper Chase.
In the future . . . a nifty font will constantly remind everyone that they are living . . . in the future!
In the future . . . people will have several “Television Sets” in one house!
In the future . . . James Caan will look pretty damn good with his shirt off.
In the future . . . Quincy’s sidekick, Dr. Sam Fujiyama, will have abandoned the medical profession to pursue his lifelong dream of being an equipment strategist for the Houston Rollerball team.
In the future . . . professional athletes will need an equipment strategist to tell them how to use complex technological advancements such as “Shin Guards,” “Elbow Pads,” and “Football Helmets.”
In the future . . . James Caan will wear trousers so tight that his crotch will look like a relief map of the Brazilian Highlands.
In the future . . . all grown men -- even James Caan -- will still look like complete douchebags on roller skates.
Ah, but I don’t want to give away the whole film. I strongly encourage every one of my readers to watch this flaming turd on wheels so that you too can experience your own thrilling cinematic journey . . . into the future!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Ho, Ho, HO-ly Crap! I Haven't Blogged in Over a Month!
Something must be done about that. Stay tuned while I shake the cobwebs off o' me digits.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Dark Clothes Horse
I'm about to do a load of darks, and the bottle of detergent I just bought tells me to pour its dark blue liquid up to the second line of this cup.
Idiots run the world.
Idiots run the world.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Lebowski at Top of Stairs
I've always kind of liked this one.
I guess there's probably some sort of art snob name for this exercise, but I just call it a-picture-of-my-dog-that-I-drew-without-looking-at-the-paper- or-lifting-my-pencil-off-the-page. Come to think of it, the art snob name might have been a bit more practical. In all honesty, I think I ended up lifting my pencil off the page once. I'm not Pablo friggin' Picasso, after all.
I guess there's probably some sort of art snob name for this exercise, but I just call it a-picture-of-my-dog-that-I-drew-without-looking-at-the-paper- or-lifting-my-pencil-off-the-page. Come to think of it, the art snob name might have been a bit more practical. In all honesty, I think I ended up lifting my pencil off the page once. I'm not Pablo friggin' Picasso, after all.
Somebody Wind Me Up
I've got nothing to say.
I have drawn some rather nice chattering teeth, though. Enjoy.
I have drawn some rather nice chattering teeth, though. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
I'm too Stupid to Use My Own Scanner
I recently figured out how to scan my drawings in a way that doesn't make them look like they've been run through a defective matter transmitter. It only took me about three years to do this, and then it was only because my friend Susan, who knows about these things, told me how.
In my defense, the process is completely counterintuitive. When I fire up the old Canon, it asks me what type of material I want to scan. I'd always chosen the "black and white line art" option, because, 1.) my drawings are in black and white, and, 2.) they are mostly made up of lines. It seems that this little test is precisely how Canon separates the smart kids from the ass-backward stupid ones. When I explained to my friend how I'd been scanning my drawings in the past, she responded "Oh, no. Don't use that line art setting. Scan your drawings as color photos." Well, that was just about the dumbest thing I'd ever heard and I wondered vaguely whether Susan had taken to hitting the sauce in the afternoon. I was desperate enough to give it a shot, however, and I'll be darned if she wasn't right.
That there's an exercise I did for a Drawing 1 class I took last fall. (Clicking on the picture will bring up a much larger version, by the way.) The assignment was to stuff a bunch of miscellaneous crap in a shoe box and draw it. There were slots in the sides of the box so some of the stuff was sticking out the side. The depth of the box is not readily apparent in this scan, since my scanner is smaller than the actual drawing and there were no 8-year-olds around to show me how to use Canon's foolproof "stitch assist" feature.
If Susan looks closely, she will notice a very poor rendering of a very nice piece of pottery that she made for me many years ago.
In my defense, the process is completely counterintuitive. When I fire up the old Canon, it asks me what type of material I want to scan. I'd always chosen the "black and white line art" option, because, 1.) my drawings are in black and white, and, 2.) they are mostly made up of lines. It seems that this little test is precisely how Canon separates the smart kids from the ass-backward stupid ones. When I explained to my friend how I'd been scanning my drawings in the past, she responded "Oh, no. Don't use that line art setting. Scan your drawings as color photos." Well, that was just about the dumbest thing I'd ever heard and I wondered vaguely whether Susan had taken to hitting the sauce in the afternoon. I was desperate enough to give it a shot, however, and I'll be darned if she wasn't right.
That there's an exercise I did for a Drawing 1 class I took last fall. (Clicking on the picture will bring up a much larger version, by the way.) The assignment was to stuff a bunch of miscellaneous crap in a shoe box and draw it. There were slots in the sides of the box so some of the stuff was sticking out the side. The depth of the box is not readily apparent in this scan, since my scanner is smaller than the actual drawing and there were no 8-year-olds around to show me how to use Canon's foolproof "stitch assist" feature.
If Susan looks closely, she will notice a very poor rendering of a very nice piece of pottery that she made for me many years ago.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Wawa, You've Given Me a Wah-wah
Take a good look at this picture. What do you see?
“A gas station,” you say? “A convenience store,” you say? Apparently, only the idiot offspring of Mr. Magoo are reading my blog today. Hell, anyone with one good eye and a metal plate in his head would recognize the above Wawa establishment as an oasis of gourmet specialty items for weary travelers with the most highly refined of palates.
Okay, I can tell that you need me to spell this out for you. The below advertisement is proof that my assessment of the above photo is entirely accurate.
Now do you believe me? For those of you not familiar with this gourmet taste treat, “ciabatta” is the Italian word for “slipper” and is used to describe a type of bread with a slightly wrinkled, crisp crust and delightfully airy center. While ciabatta loaves are largely shapeless, they often have a bit of a pointy end that resembles the toe of a lady’s slipper. Thus the name. Here is a ciabatta loaf that I baked recently.
As this was my first attempt at ciabatta, it resembles something more of a circus geek’s clubfoot than the shoe of a dainty Italian maiden, but you get the idea.
The observant reader may notice that Wawa’s ciabatta looks nothing like the traditional Italian loaf I’ve just described. For one thing, it is split down the center like a loaf of Sara Lee* split-top bread. For another, it has a distinct shape not unlike that of a weenie bun suffering from gastric bloat. In fact, it would seem that the ciabatta’s comparative pallor is the only quality that sets it apart from Wawa’s standard hoagie roll.
We should all congratulate the Wawa on its impressive display of inventive epicureanism. It takes a tanker truck full of balls to shatter a stale, centuries-old bread baking tradition in effort to create a ground-breaking new taste sensation that will satisfy no one and everyone simultaneously.
In its infinite wisdom, Wawa realized that not every one of its potential customers is a culinary expert. There were bound to be a few poor slobs stumbling into Wawa who wouldn't know a boulangerie from a pair of crotchless underpants. So, Wawa was kind enough to lend these folks a guiding hand by providing a beverage suggestion that would compliment the ciabatta’s flavor rather than overpower the complexity of its yeasty wang.
Thanks to Wawa, culinary rubes now know that a fountain beverage the size of an oil drum provides the best accompaniment to ciabatta, and that pairing ciabatta with an ICEE is nothing shy of gauche.
Since Wawa’s business practices had so deeply moved me, I decided to visit the company’s website so I could learn all there is to know about this Gourmet Good Citizen. I was thrilled to find that Wawa has posted its mission statement online for all to see. Among the many high standards that the company strives to uphold, I found these to be the most poignant and relevant to its obvious devotion to artisan bread baking:
Our Core Purpose. . .
To Simplify Our Customers’ Daily Lives
Our Core Values. . .
Delight People
Embrace Change
I, for one, am delighted by how much simpler my life has become due to Wawa’s commitment to embracing change. Gone are the days I once spent toiling in the kitchen, kneading bread by hand while a hot oven singed my sagging derriere. I’m off to the Wawa to git me some of that $3.99 ciabatta action. Hot-damn!
* Sara Lee Food and Beverage, incidentally, has just recalled several of its whole wheat bread products because they “might” contain metal fragments. While it’s true that nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee, apparently there is at least one Nitpicky Dick out there who doesn’t like metal shavings in his whole wheat.
“A gas station,” you say? “A convenience store,” you say? Apparently, only the idiot offspring of Mr. Magoo are reading my blog today. Hell, anyone with one good eye and a metal plate in his head would recognize the above Wawa establishment as an oasis of gourmet specialty items for weary travelers with the most highly refined of palates.
Okay, I can tell that you need me to spell this out for you. The below advertisement is proof that my assessment of the above photo is entirely accurate.
Now do you believe me? For those of you not familiar with this gourmet taste treat, “ciabatta” is the Italian word for “slipper” and is used to describe a type of bread with a slightly wrinkled, crisp crust and delightfully airy center. While ciabatta loaves are largely shapeless, they often have a bit of a pointy end that resembles the toe of a lady’s slipper. Thus the name. Here is a ciabatta loaf that I baked recently.
As this was my first attempt at ciabatta, it resembles something more of a circus geek’s clubfoot than the shoe of a dainty Italian maiden, but you get the idea.
The observant reader may notice that Wawa’s ciabatta looks nothing like the traditional Italian loaf I’ve just described. For one thing, it is split down the center like a loaf of Sara Lee* split-top bread. For another, it has a distinct shape not unlike that of a weenie bun suffering from gastric bloat. In fact, it would seem that the ciabatta’s comparative pallor is the only quality that sets it apart from Wawa’s standard hoagie roll.
We should all congratulate the Wawa on its impressive display of inventive epicureanism. It takes a tanker truck full of balls to shatter a stale, centuries-old bread baking tradition in effort to create a ground-breaking new taste sensation that will satisfy no one and everyone simultaneously.
In its infinite wisdom, Wawa realized that not every one of its potential customers is a culinary expert. There were bound to be a few poor slobs stumbling into Wawa who wouldn't know a boulangerie from a pair of crotchless underpants. So, Wawa was kind enough to lend these folks a guiding hand by providing a beverage suggestion that would compliment the ciabatta’s flavor rather than overpower the complexity of its yeasty wang.
Thanks to Wawa, culinary rubes now know that a fountain beverage the size of an oil drum provides the best accompaniment to ciabatta, and that pairing ciabatta with an ICEE is nothing shy of gauche.
Since Wawa’s business practices had so deeply moved me, I decided to visit the company’s website so I could learn all there is to know about this Gourmet Good Citizen. I was thrilled to find that Wawa has posted its mission statement online for all to see. Among the many high standards that the company strives to uphold, I found these to be the most poignant and relevant to its obvious devotion to artisan bread baking:
Our Core Purpose. . .
To Simplify Our Customers’ Daily Lives
Our Core Values. . .
Delight People
Embrace Change
I, for one, am delighted by how much simpler my life has become due to Wawa’s commitment to embracing change. Gone are the days I once spent toiling in the kitchen, kneading bread by hand while a hot oven singed my sagging derriere. I’m off to the Wawa to git me some of that $3.99 ciabatta action. Hot-damn!
* Sara Lee Food and Beverage, incidentally, has just recalled several of its whole wheat bread products because they “might” contain metal fragments. While it’s true that nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee, apparently there is at least one Nitpicky Dick out there who doesn’t like metal shavings in his whole wheat.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Beach Baby
I spent some time at the beach last week. It was a very nice beach, with lots of sand and water and colorful sailboats. It was very sunny and there were lots of pretty umbrellas to keep the sun from frying the crap out of all the nice people who were on the beach. Hundreds of people, there were. The place was crawling with them. Oh, how I looked forward to taking nice pictures of all the nice people and things I saw at the nice beach. So, what do I do instead?
Sigh.
Well, it's a good thing I took all those photos when I was in Manhattan last winter, or folks might begin to think I'm some sort of recluse with a mental problem.
http://extrastorchy.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-am-anti-weegee.html
What's that you say? There are no people in any of those photos either?
Crap.
Sigh.
Well, it's a good thing I took all those photos when I was in Manhattan last winter, or folks might begin to think I'm some sort of recluse with a mental problem.
http://extrastorchy.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-am-anti-weegee.html
What's that you say? There are no people in any of those photos either?
Crap.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Drip Drop
What's round in the middle, round on both ends, and is a mathematical genius of heretofore unprecedented abilities? If you answered "Storchy," you are correct. I am but one trigonometry final exam away from never having to use math again. I may even have my fingers and toes surgically removed so that I will not be tempted to use them for calculation purposes. What's more, I am frightfully close to earning an A for this class, which not only proves that I am a cipherin' dynamo but also that my instructor is a magical leprechaun.
So, I shall spend this weekend studying my rounder end off to ensure that I get at least an 86 on the final. In effort to maintain my sanity, I will take occasional breaks to bake a Pugliese loaf, which will, with any luck, turn out looking something like this . . .
. . . and will not crack too many of our molars. This means, of course, that you should all begin to prepare yourselves for another thrill-packed Photographic Adventure in Bread Baking, with Storchy, Mathematical Genius, as your astoundingly intrepid guide.
Until then, you'll have to while away the hours studying my Photographic Adventure in Wet Leaf Observation, which, although just as exciting as my recent bread adventure, is much shorter and nowhere near as tasty. Ready? One, two, three . . . stare!
And while you're at it, think happy thoughts about trig, huh?
So, I shall spend this weekend studying my rounder end off to ensure that I get at least an 86 on the final. In effort to maintain my sanity, I will take occasional breaks to bake a Pugliese loaf, which will, with any luck, turn out looking something like this . . .
. . . and will not crack too many of our molars. This means, of course, that you should all begin to prepare yourselves for another thrill-packed Photographic Adventure in Bread Baking, with Storchy, Mathematical Genius, as your astoundingly intrepid guide.
Until then, you'll have to while away the hours studying my Photographic Adventure in Wet Leaf Observation, which, although just as exciting as my recent bread adventure, is much shorter and nowhere near as tasty. Ready? One, two, three . . . stare!
And while you're at it, think happy thoughts about trig, huh?
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Check Out My Bread, Suckas!
During my past month of silence, I have become the Mack Daddy of bread baking. I shit you not. Those of you who have known me for decades probably recall at least one occasion when the Young Storchy, sporting a prideful glow generally associated with mentally impaired finger painters, had presented you with a burnt grilled cheese sandwich as if it were a braised leg of lamb dipped in fairy dust. Well, I’m here to tell you that Storchy is dead. Check out the new and improved Storchy’s latest masterpiece, the rustic Italian loaf:
Nice, eh?
Since it tasted even better than it looked, we’d eaten the thing down to a nub before I remembered to get a shot of the inside.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Props to Me!
Having come to fully appreciate the genius that is Storchy's Swingin' Hullaba-log, my friend Chuck (shown here in his natural habitat). . .
. . . was inspired to write a poem about it. I shall post it here for all to enjoy.
Storchy Street
by Rod McKuen
Oh, Storchy Street is a magical place
where ravenous insects bite off your face
And Arbor Day lasts all the year 'round
And toast comes up thru' a hole in the ground.
It's just at the end of Daisy Dog Road
Come along with me, and thence shall we go!
We'll eat quail eggs from a can, with a spoon
'til our big blue bellies turn round as the moon!
Then we'll dance to the Bee Gees and shout "Holy
Balls!"
'Til Sweet Lizzie Borden puts an end to us all.
Ain't that a beaut? I weep every time I read it.
Would that I had the time to spend gushing about Chuck's many excellent qualities. In the interest of brevity, however, I will just point out that, 1.) Chuck and Rod McKuen are actually the same person (you heard it here first!), and, 2.) Chuck is a fan of Terry Anderson and the Olympic Ass-Kickin Team.
Those two things alone make Chuck cooler than Elvis. Hell . . . props to Chuck, too!
Chuck
. . . was inspired to write a poem about it. I shall post it here for all to enjoy.
Storchy Street
by Rod McKuen
Oh, Storchy Street is a magical place
where ravenous insects bite off your face
And Arbor Day lasts all the year 'round
And toast comes up thru' a hole in the ground.
It's just at the end of Daisy Dog Road
Come along with me, and thence shall we go!
We'll eat quail eggs from a can, with a spoon
'til our big blue bellies turn round as the moon!
Then we'll dance to the Bee Gees and shout "Holy
Balls!"
'Til Sweet Lizzie Borden puts an end to us all.
Ain't that a beaut? I weep every time I read it.
Would that I had the time to spend gushing about Chuck's many excellent qualities. In the interest of brevity, however, I will just point out that, 1.) Chuck and Rod McKuen are actually the same person (you heard it here first!), and, 2.) Chuck is a fan of Terry Anderson and the Olympic Ass-Kickin Team.
Those two things alone make Chuck cooler than Elvis. Hell . . . props to Chuck, too!
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Mmph.
Today I had to get up at 5:30 AM to make it to a 7:30 trigonometry test. Do you know what else is up at 5:30 in the morning? The fucking moon, that's what.
I'm going back to bed.
I'm going back to bed.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
12 Things I Learned From An Evening of Watching "The Kids Are Alright" and Led Zep's "How the West Was Won" Back-To-Back
1. Keith Moon was by far the coolest member of The Who.
2. Keith Moon and John Bonham were both crazy-phenomenal drummers. If I had to choose between them, though, I'd pick John Bonham. Keith Moon's constant reliance on cymbal crashing makes him a tad more busy than I like, though his style was an integral part of The Who's sound. There's a real art to Bonham's instinct to keep it simple. What he chooses not to play is just as important as what he plays.
3. Les Pauls are wonderful guitars that really shouldn't oughta be smashed.
4. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant both shopped at at Vulgar Trouser World.
5. Roger Daltrey wore Garanimals shirts, but Robert Plant wore his mum's blouses.
6. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant are both equally annoying, yet equally necessary.
7. At times, both Roger Daltrey and John Paul Jones wore outfits frightfully similar to 1970s ladies' office fashions that were inspired by "Little House on the Prairie".
8. Pete Townshend's guitar playing seems cute and amusing compared to that of Jimmy Page.
9. Led Zeppelin's lyrics are best ignored. The Who's lyrics, on the other hand, could be quite pithy on occasion.
10. Jimmy Page had fabulous taste in footwear.
11. The young Robert Plant was really just a big nerd who liked Tolkien way too much. If Led Zeppelin had formed in the '70s instead of the '60s, all of their songs would've been about Star Wars.
12. I'd like The Who a whole lot more if they had broken up in 1968.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Blow It Out Your Ass, Kid.
Jeez, you’d think this poor bastard would’ve taken his aversion to play into consideration prior to choosing a career as a giant toy. A little vocational counseling would do him a world of good, as he's clearly not a hopeless case. For example, his passive-aggressive smile would be well suited to a career as a Bergdorf Goodman retail sales representative.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid your credit card has been declined."
And his 5'5" height would make him a shoe-in as a jockey, although he'd have to work on his flexibility some. Of course, that cold, hard stare could set him up for a highly successful career in interrogation, or perhaps hypnotism.
"Resistance is futile!"
It pains me to see people wasting their lives in dead-end jobs. The world is your oyster, little man. Follow your dreams.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
National Arbor Day Foundation Helps Planet by Distributing Recycled Paper Products Like There’s No Friggin’ Tomorrow
Yesterday I received the following solicitation from the National Arbor Day Foundation:
Note the words “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” and the block of X-ray-specs-proof squiggles that make the envelope appear all official-like. Now, I am not a member of the National Arbor Day Foundation (nor have I ever been), but my knee-jerk reaction to the “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” label was to wonder whether some identity-thieving jackass was running up my charge account with membership dues for do-goodery organizations such as this one. Upon examining the STATEMENT that was indeed ENCLOSED, I noticed that I, Storchy, was listed as a “Member,” and that the organization wanted me (a lousy deadbeat member, apparently) to cough up my “Annual Membership Dues” of $10. Having dismissed my initial identity theft theory as asinine, I fretted that I might in fact have purchased a National Arbor Day Foundation membership the previous year, after getting shit-faced on Mad Dog at my annual Arbor Day cookout and tire-burning party. I get a little emotional at those things, especially when I’m hammered.
However, I forgot my worries once I explored the contents of the envelope.
Holy balls! There’s enough recycled paper in that pile to constipate a large goatherd. It seems the National Arbor Day Foundation wishes to show its gratitude for my nonexistent support by showering me with the following gifts:
1.) Two Give-a-Tree greeting cards, with envelopes
2.) An 11 x 17 Rainforest Rescue Wall Calendar
3.) A book about planting and caring for trees
4.) Return address labels
5.) A bimonthly newsletter
A recycled paper product, another recycled paper product, yet another recycled paper product, a sticky recycled paper product, and a bimonthly recycled paper product. But wait! There’s more!
6.) A dozen 10-ounce bags (recycled paper bags, presumably) of their Arbor Day Specialty Coffee “that matures slowly in the shade of tall rain forest trees . . . and is produced without burning the forest to grow sun-loving commercial coffee.”
A nice idea on the surface, granted. However, I suspect the description neglects to mention that Arbor Day Specialty Coffee trees are fertilized with the freshly squeezed blood of baby lemurs, and the coffee tastes like bonobo ass with a hint of powdery mildew.
As part of my member benefits, the swell folks of the National Arbor Day Foundation will plant two trees for me free of charge. They kind of have to, really. When the world runs out of recycled paper, the National Arbor Day Foundation will need to use those trees to make more paper products that will eventually be recycled and distributed across the globe in bulk mail.
Ah, but I kid the National Arbor Day Foundation. Truth is, I’m glad I received this solicitation from such a fine, fine organization. It has taught me a great deal about protecting our environment.
Note the words “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” and the block of X-ray-specs-proof squiggles that make the envelope appear all official-like. Now, I am not a member of the National Arbor Day Foundation (nor have I ever been), but my knee-jerk reaction to the “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” label was to wonder whether some identity-thieving jackass was running up my charge account with membership dues for do-goodery organizations such as this one. Upon examining the STATEMENT that was indeed ENCLOSED, I noticed that I, Storchy, was listed as a “Member,” and that the organization wanted me (a lousy deadbeat member, apparently) to cough up my “Annual Membership Dues” of $10. Having dismissed my initial identity theft theory as asinine, I fretted that I might in fact have purchased a National Arbor Day Foundation membership the previous year, after getting shit-faced on Mad Dog at my annual Arbor Day cookout and tire-burning party. I get a little emotional at those things, especially when I’m hammered.
However, I forgot my worries once I explored the contents of the envelope.
Holy balls! There’s enough recycled paper in that pile to constipate a large goatherd. It seems the National Arbor Day Foundation wishes to show its gratitude for my nonexistent support by showering me with the following gifts:
1.) Two Give-a-Tree greeting cards, with envelopes
2.) An 11 x 17 Rainforest Rescue Wall Calendar
3.) A book about planting and caring for trees
4.) Return address labels
5.) A bimonthly newsletter
A recycled paper product, another recycled paper product, yet another recycled paper product, a sticky recycled paper product, and a bimonthly recycled paper product. But wait! There’s more!
6.) A dozen 10-ounce bags (recycled paper bags, presumably) of their Arbor Day Specialty Coffee “that matures slowly in the shade of tall rain forest trees . . . and is produced without burning the forest to grow sun-loving commercial coffee.”
A nice idea on the surface, granted. However, I suspect the description neglects to mention that Arbor Day Specialty Coffee trees are fertilized with the freshly squeezed blood of baby lemurs, and the coffee tastes like bonobo ass with a hint of powdery mildew.
As part of my member benefits, the swell folks of the National Arbor Day Foundation will plant two trees for me free of charge. They kind of have to, really. When the world runs out of recycled paper, the National Arbor Day Foundation will need to use those trees to make more paper products that will eventually be recycled and distributed across the globe in bulk mail.
Ah, but I kid the National Arbor Day Foundation. Truth is, I’m glad I received this solicitation from such a fine, fine organization. It has taught me a great deal about protecting our environment.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Props to Donald Trump!
Donald Trump is a big, important business tycoon. He is very busy. I am not a big, important business tycoon. I am not as busy as Donald Trump.
The View is a show on television. It is on during the day when most people work. It is a show for ladies. I am a lady. Donald Trump is not a lady. He is a man. A very, very busy man, who runs casinos and stars in his own TV show and has affairs and builds shiny, pink marble skyscrapers that blot out the sun. So busy.
I have only watched The View once for about ten minutes. It was because Little Richard was on. He played a song and then he showed us everything that was in his makeup bag. Oh, Little Richard, you loveable freak show. There were many ladies on the program, but I could not tell you who they were except for Barbara Walters, who has been on television since the days when TVs only had one channel and were powered by raw potatoes.
Today, Donald Trump was on CNN. He was talking about The View. He knew the names of all the ladies on The View. He knew about each lady’s personality foibles. He knew that one of the ladies had been in a relationship for twenty-five years. He knew details about a disagreement that two of the ladies had recently.
I can only name two of the ladies who are currently on The View. One of them is Barbara Walters. The other is Rosie O’Donnell. I only know that Rosie O'Donnell is on The View because Donald Trump said so on the TV a few weeks ago. Plus, you can hear her yelling even when the TV is off and your head is in a bucket of wet sand. I do not know anything about any of the ladies’ private lives. There are many, many things that I do not know about The View.
But Donald Trump knows everything about The View even though he is very busy and is not a lady. It is nice that he can still find the time to watch a television program he enjoys. If I were a big, important business tycoon and I had a favorite TV show, I would also want to tell the world about it on CNN. MSNBC and Fox, too.
Thank you, Donald Trump, for keeping me abreast of what’s happening on a TV show that I can’t seem to find time to watch. You go, girl!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
