Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
Baked Potato Soup
On this cold and wintry day, I’m preparing homemade Baked Potato Soup, one of my favorite comfort foods. I highly recommend you try it sometime.
Now, before you let yourself feel some sort of inadequate next to the wonderment of my ambition, any speculation of culinary skill, or an image of me that includes a cute apron and matching spatula . . . consider the following:
- The idea to make this soup came to me because I noticed that the potatoes in the cupboard were close to growing ears and feet.
- I was pleasantly surprised to find a hunk of onion in the veggie drawer. And it was about the right amount of onion . . . until I finished cutting off all of the dry and/or rubbery bits.
- Instead of bacon, I used turkey bacon. Instead of sour cream, I used yogurt.
Multiple Choice:
I chose the alternatives above because:
A.) I only buy super-nutritive and planet-responsible foods like vegetables grown in natural sunlight while listening to Enya and meat from non-methane-producing cows.
B.) I did not feel like going to the grocery store to get the right things.
- Sharp cheddar cheese is the perfect choice for this recipe. Yep. I chopped up some nearly stiff slices of swiss foraged from the back of the lunchmeat drawer. Then, I tossed in a bit of parmesan that I’m still not sure about.
- Had no chives, so I used parsley and dillweed. Parsley because, you know, it kind of looks like chives. Dillweed because it’s the funniest thing in the spice rack.
- I did not parboil the potatoes. (I’m not 100 percent sure I know what parboil means.) I just dumped everything into a crock pot and turned it on.
- First, I had to go get the crock pot, from where it has been sitting in the basement, just inside the door to the garage, since Thanksgiving.
- Yes, Thanksgiving 2013, and, yes, it was clean. (But these are not unreasonable questions.)
With any luck, when I sit down to eat this, um, variation of Baked Potato Soup, I will not just spit it out with a grimace and a gag. ‘Cause then I’d probably have to get up off the couch to go change this lovely sweat pants and T-shirt ensemble.
Happy Friday. Bon Appétit!
Super Bowl Commercials
Okay, I watch the Super Bowl because I like football. And it annoys me that it has become an advertising show interspersed with a few minutes of football. There was a time when the few commercials run during the big game became a sort of delightful surprise. But, as too often happens when advertisers discover a spark of cool (and misinterpret its appeal), Super Bowl advertising has become an overdone, over-hyped display of the mostly weird.
My 2 million cents.
Bruce Willis Honda Hug Commercial
Hi, we’re Honda. We sell cars. But we spent a trunk load of money on a commercial to say that what’s really important isn’t a car but to watch the Super Bowl with people you care about and give them a hug. Oh, and here are two guys who will make that potentially sincere message feel silly and odd.
T-Mobile (Simple pink background with text.)
“Maybe next year we’ll hire a big celebrity.” Loved it. Brilliant.
Coke/America the Beautiful
I get and like America’s melting pot personality, and I appreciate Coke’s world view. They did it so well with “I’d like to teach the world to sing.” But America the Beautiful? Hmm. For Coke’s global audience, isn’t that a tad rude? And for Coke’s American audience, wasn’t that a little preachy, bordering on unpatriotic?
Bob Dylan for . . . (was it Chevy?)
“Nothing is more American than America”? Huh. Also, nothing is more sliced and bready than sliced bread.
Budweiser Puppy-Horse Commercial
I almost loved it. But I wouldn’t have picked “Puppy Love” as the theme song. (Are the dog and horse “best buds” as the clever tagline says or are they in love?)
Were I the creative director, the friendship between the horse and dog would have brought the farmer and dog breeder together. (Wouldn’t that have been better than, as one friend put it, a carjacking?)
Pistachios
In a word, Wonderful. One of the few ads in which using a celebrity meshes perfectly with their existing advertising campaign. And Colbert was his normal, deadpan hilarious self. (Pistachio!)
Matrix Car Commercial
Today, I am going to turn Nessun Dorma (one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written) up loud and hope that Pavarotti can help me forget I ever saw/heard this commercial. (Also, interesting, using a song about not knowing a name to run a commercial for which I cannot remember the brand.)
Go Daddy’s Muscle Men Running to Tanning Salon
I thought this one was fun—and a much more appropriate campaign for the Go Daddy target audience than their previous ads aimed at those needing a domain name for a porn site.
Cheerios Little Brother and a Puppy
I still don’t have any idea why people are so upset about the depiction of this mixed race family. But I’m never a fan of portraying children as manipulative little brats who get their way.
Butterfinger Candy Ménage
Saved the worst for last. Creepy concept. Creepy people. And the worlds worst marriage therapist.
P.S. If the name of your candy bar includes the words butt and finger, perhaps you should avoid the deviant sex analogy?
Richard Sherman, May I Call You Dick?
I once dropped an enormous F-bomb in the midst of a heated softball game. A reporter and cameraman were not in the stands that day. But my parents were. It is difficult, even now, all these years later, to share what they said to me after the game, but I can tell you, they did not say, “Well, you played well, so we’re still thrilled to be your parents right now.”
True, an amateur softball game cannot compare to an NFL playoff game, but that’s not my point.
When I saw Sherman’s outrageous outburst following Sunday’s NFL playoff, I thought it was surprising (and kind of hilarious). I thought, “Boy-oh-boy-oh, this guy is going to be mortified once he calms down.” And I thought, “The media is going to have a field day with such a blatant display of poor sportsmanship.”
But he isn’t. And they haven’t.
His explanation has been, well, less than apologetic. (“I’m most sorry about the coverage this has received.”) Many are standing up for him. (“That’s the kind of guy I’d want on my team.”) And the Beats commercial featuring him rolling his eyes about his bad image has begun to run more often.
What the heck?
Despite what the talking heads seem to be implying in their coverage of negative reaction among fans, I am not a stupid, single-minded automaton who can’t understand the situation.
Guess what, regular folks know that competition can be emotional, that spirits run high when your adrenalin is pumping. We’re actually quite capable of understanding why Sherman lost his mind. We’re even capable of feeling bad for him that it happened in front of a reporter and a cameraman.
(Oh, and btw, most of us don’t make millions doing what we do, but we all face challenges with far greater consequences than a trophy. Just sayin’.)
Humans — regular or famous — are silly, emotional, passionate, imperfect creatures. We all make mistakes. We take our turn being stupid or angry or mean or thoughtless. But some of us? When we screw up, we acknowledge our mistake and aspire to do better. It’s likely the main reason our species has continued to exist.
Mistakes make us human. Admitting our mistakes and trying to do better makes us lovable. Acting as if you are exempt from the endeavor has the opposite effect.
And that is why people like me will carry on, knowing what’s really important in life, and understanding football quite well enough, thank-you-very-much. For example:
- This Sherman fellow is just one man among fewer than 1,700 players in the football world (and 7 billion people in the real world).
- Sherman is only 25 years old, with time to learn.
- The Seahawks team doctor has stated that Sherman’s aggressive behavior stems from having a tiny penis.
- I shouldn’t have written that last bullet. I need to be a better person.
- Let’s go, Broncos!
B-attitude
Blessed are the kind-hearted.
Blessed are the imperfect.
Blessed are those who trust in goodness – but learn from experience.
Blessed are the funny, the witty, and the droll.
Blessed are the stupid, for they doth be amusing.
Blessed are those who preserve and run old movies.
Blessed are those who use a turn signal.
Blessed are the misunderstood; one day they shall be vindicated. Or at least learn not to give a rat’s ass.
Blessed are those with their head up their arse (because at least that shuts them up).
Blessed are they who do not forward chain letters.
Blessed are those who hope despite all of the evidence.
Blessed are those creative enough to design a bumper sticker that isn’t in the shape of a looped ribbon.
Blessed are they who still make, sell, buy, and read real books.
Blessed are the cheese makers.
Blessed are the silly for they lie closest to understanding the world.
Blessed are the lapsed Catholics.
Be Nice.
Today’s epiphany is: I like Garbage Men. They’re like Santa in reverse.
Make a list of the things you really don’t want. Old stuff, ripped stuff, smooshed stuff. The stinky, the rotten, the gross. The used, the broken, the empty. Check your waste baskets, check them twice, and gather up everything, naughty or nice, and then, by dark of night, place it all at the curb. And go quietly, serenely to bed.
When you awake, you can run down the stairs, throw back the shutters, and press your nose against the glass to see if it’s true. Yes! Yes! They came! They were here! It has all disappeared. The banana peels and apple cores; the can and jar labels; the evidence that you ate an entire box of cookies and a pizza; the moldy bread, shrimp tails, bits of lunchmeat; the shredded junk mail, discarded envelopes, and snipped circulars; the soggy paper towels, cigarette butts, earwaxed Q-Tips, and boogered tissues; even the clumps of cat poo. It has all gone away. Like magic.
Almost.
I was driving down my street this morning and had to stop behind the garbage truck to wait for a chance to pass as men picked up their sacks. And I saw it happen. An overstuffed wimpy-wimpy-wimpy bag fell to pieces. And I heard the garbage man yell. It was an involuntary roar. It was a cinematic No! It was a resonating moment of human angst, as real as any of us feels when a rotten, stinking workday goes from bad to worse.
Were he anything like me, he probably would have considered going up on the rooftop to drop garbage in this person’s chimney. But he didn’t. He went to the truck and grabbed a shovel to scoop it all up.
As he made it to the back of the truck with a third shovel full, I saw my chance to pass and pulled away, noticing, as I drove through the neighborhood, how many more garbage bags there were to be picked up. I couldn’t help but think about what it must be like to do his job every day, picking up stinking bags in the middle of August or hanging onto the side of a steel truck in early February.
Starting next garbage night, I am going to double-bag the messy stuff and triple bag the used kitty litter. I’m not going to try to fit quite so much into each bag. And I’ll be more aware of the awkward and the heavy. I don’t suppose it would be sanitary to leave them a glass of milk and a plate of cookies, but these good elves will be getting a better tip from my house come Christmas.
P.S. I would like to acknowledge, for perhaps the first time ever, how very nice it is to work indoors at a computer.
Unemployment Benefits
So, I lost my job a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve yet to fully comprehend all of the documentation I’ve received from the Unemployment Compensation program, Cobra, and the 401(k) people, but tonight I’m taking a moment to celebrate the following benefits:
1. Winter clothes in storage. Yes, it’s mid-August and I’ll start switching back in a month or so anyway, but what the heck, it feels good.
2. Alterations on misfit clothing begun. The key benefit represented here being that this means I figured out how to run a bobbin all by myself.
3. House is tidy.
4. I’ve been eating homemade meals. (And there aren’t any dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter or in the oven.)
5. Files from my first home computer, which hasn’t been plugged in since 2004, have been transferred to my current computer.
6. My purse has no extra lint, receipts, expired coupons, or 10-pound lump of pennies.
7. My garden looks as if I know what I’m doing.
8. Xenosaga III completed.
9. My home laptop now has the latest version of itunes loaded, my music is in The Cloud, and I have synced my iPod shuffle that I got for Christmas 2 years ago.
10. Caught up on laundry, email, facebook, and sleep.
11. It’s Sunday night. And I have no nasty black-pit feeling in my stomach.
12. Last but not least, my favorite benefit: Time to write.
Another Creepy Facebook Ad
Saw this ad on my facebook page today.
1. I am not signed up for truelove2013.com. Although I must admit I’m curious: What happens in 2014?
2. I find the wording hilarious, especially given the photo of this man in a vehicle. Um, should I be checking the rearview mirror while running errands today?
3. btw, this isn’t (according to facebook) the only handsome, eligible guy in my vicinity who is aware of me and wants to date me. Yeahhhhh, that sounds about right. Boys lining up. Always makes it so hard to back the car out of the garage.
4. So, is facebook doing this with my photo? Are there strange men across the world (or “nearby”!) who are seeing my photo and being told I want to date them? If so, how do they select the photo? Imagine if they pulled this one from my facebook profile:
So, dear facebook (and other) friends, a request: If you see one of these fellows following me around, please alert me and protect me.
But, you know, don’t scare him off.
Charmin’ Ad
As part of my ongoing fascination with how truly bizarre, borderline gross, and 7th-grade funny Charmin’s marketing is, here is an ad that appeared in the margin of facebook today.
At least they’re not asking customers to share photos. Yet.
Dish Washer
Recently, I noticed a certain deterioration in the performance of the dishwasher. One by one, the buttons stopped working. “Pots and pans” died. “Heavy wash” died. “Normal wash” died. I was down to “Light wash.”
I had a repairman take a look. Prognosis: A new electronic pad unit thingamabob, $200 for the part, yada-yada, and I decided—with a surge of energetic, disciplined vim that I, whose ancestors crossed the ocean on a boat . . . that I, who have camped in the wilderness and washed my mess kit in a stream . . . that I, who generally only have dishes for one—could certainly live without a dishwasher for a while.
And so, my friends, I washed dishes by hand. And, you know what? It was soothing. It was a sort of Zen thing. It made me wax philosophical about this rush-rush-rush world we live in.
The next day, I decided that the “Light wash” cycle was, you know, probably fine really, and, while loading up the dishwasher, I noticed this plastic rectangular bit (inside the door, opposite the not-working buttons) that looked as if it would pop right out. And it would. And I did.
Journey to Stupidville. Step 1.
Then, I noticed the screws around the edge of the inside door. I’d turn back if I were you!
With the door taken apart, I came upon this bit of bulky black plastic (with electrocution warnings) that also looked as if it would pop right off. And it would. And I did.
(Yes, I turned the power off first.)
And then, as I realized, sigh and rats, that I couldn’t access the buttons anyway, I decided to put it all back together again. And that was when the entire top third of the inner door fell out of the doorframe.
Ah. Yes. Hmmmm.
I attempted to put it back together for quite some time while staving off a wave of fear, panic, and completely unjustified astonishment. No go.
I did indeed consider picking up the phone to call the repairman or my Dad. But, the Unsinkable Molly Brown Maniac in my head suggested I try again.
After another hour or so of fumbling, straining, cussing, and wishing for a third hand to reach the screwdriver . . . it was, suddenly, somehow, some it-can’t-be-right way back together. I tightened the screws. I pushed the “Pots and pans” button. (Nothing.) “Heavy wash.” (Nothing.) “Normal wash.” (Nothing.) “Light wash.” (Ah, the little green light comes on, water begins to run.) I stood watch, truly fascinated at the lack of leaks and/or explosions. I shook my head at my wasted efforts but breathed a sigh, saluted the Gods of Dumb Luck (who prefer offerings of icy cold beer), and promised myself to call the repairman very soon.
So.
Last night, I loaded up the dishwasher, and pushed a button—in the way I have been doing since it started to stop working, pressing each button in a row until I get to one that works. I hit the “Pots and pans” button, and, as I slid my finger to the “Heavy wash” button, um, Hel-lo. The little green light under “Pots and pans” is on?! and the water is running?! The dishwasher had started up! On “Pots and pans”! It also started on “Heavy wash” and “Normal wash.” Every. Single. Button. Is. Working. Now.
Awesome! Amazing! Freakin’ sweet! Mwa-ha-ha! Mwa-ha-ha, in your face dishwasher. I won! I won! I won! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! I WON!
Hooray!
{On the other hand, I can’t help thinking this is positive reinforcement of the very worst kind.}
Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day – Driving Tips Book
My new book “Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day” welcomes new drivers to the open road with wisdom and humor. Blending useful driving tips, advice, and lessons learned with imagery that captures the adventure of cars and driving, this book tells a new driver, “Be safe. I love you!” A fun and informative gift for teens that parents will appreciate, too.
{Note: I have to thank a friend of mine for writing the above book description for me. Funny how I’ve spent my career helping other people promote themselves and their products, but, when it came to my own, I had trouble putting it into words without feeling as if I were being an obnoxious braggart.}
This book was a labor of love, inspired by my own nephew turning 16. Should you be so inclined, it’s on sale at amazon.com.
A few excerpts:
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February 20, 2014 at 4:25 pm 4 comments