Chocolate milk before bed

Do you think more people wash their hands vigorously for thirty seconds or do more people brush their teeth for a full two minutes?

 

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An Italian Chef Whose Wife Left Him For the Mailman Giving Cooking Tips on Live TV While Commenting on the President’s Tax Plan

Benvenuto! Have I gotta show for you today, just sit back and enjoy, unless you’re the piece of shit coglione who stole my wife, you asshole, how dare you, you hand me bills every day then take my wife, you bastard, you no good son of a bitch, you faccia di cazzo, yous gonna eat rotten meatballs soaked in la pipi all alone tonight, capiche? The rest of you, let’s cook! But before we start, cutting the corporate tax rate may reduce revenues by $2 trillion over ten years, but where we gettin’ $2 trillion? You got $2 trillion? I don’t. I don’t even have a wife. Sfiga! We can’t generate enough economic growth to compensate for that type of loss, but I tells you what we can do: we can do is sprinkle a little oregano and basilico on these veal cutlets when they’re done frying for some extra flavor, ok? And in the oven here we’re making spanaci casseruola, so let’s take a peek at that, the same way I peeked in on that no good postal service cretino having his way with my wife, alla pecorina, in my house! Merda! Spanaci looks about done, so we’re gonna lower the oven temp, like the capital gains tax, way down real low. Capiche?

Of Mice and Potatoes and Men

“Can I still tend the rabbits, MacTuber?”

-SpudWeb

Working with Spuds on this blog, I now know what it was like for George to drift along in life with Lenny, a “huge man, shapeless of face, with large, pale eyes,” in Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men. Spuds is big, friendly, not at all bright, and my best friend. So take note readers – in days ahead, I will be chronicling my complex, rich, deeply troubled, relationship with Spuds.

Faithfully yours,

MacTuber

High School Transcript

I got a D on my essay on The Crucible? Who said that? Lies! Tell me who said it. Tell me. I got an A. I got two As. Actually, what really happened was I got a A+ and an A++ and believe me, that’s very difficult to do, trust me. No one has ever done that. Ever. That’s how good my essay was.

What’s this talk about a D? ‘Oh, look, hey, he got a D.’ Give me a break! #FAKE NEWS! I’ll tell you what though, I didn’t even read the novel. I know what it says without reading it. Here’s the thing my enemies don’t realize. I know everything, I really do. And people—some of them are good people, mostly rapists but you know, a few good ones probably, maybe—they don’t understand: I am very smart. Very smart. So smart. Tremendously so. And I’m too busy making deals and winning to read Hemingway. Did you see me win last November? What a big beautiful win. I love winning. And I’m very reasonable. My doctor says I have the health of a 20 year old black. But seriously, who said I got a D?  Whoever said that is really, really, very, extremely wrong. That person is totally misinformed, and they’re probably very troubled and not a winner. #FAKENEWS.  I’ve actually read every book in the library.

Unsung Hero

When it comes to deli sandwiches and burgers, only a few cheeses reign supreme. You know the slices I’m talking about: American, Cheddar, Swiss, Mozzarella, Provolone. Those are your top five. You could make an argument for Monterey Jack’s cousin Pepper. Gruyere slinks around in the background, but it has a reputation (perhaps unfairly) for being snooty. Then there’s the Halley’s Comet that is Muenster.

With that dairy landscape, I’d like to offer up a cheese for your future sandwich and burger consideration: Havarti.

Yes, Havarti. It’s fantastic. Flavorful and full of well-melting fattiness. All it needs is the right marketing. And, for Havarti producers, you’re in luck because I have a real zinger. In the same vein as ‘Wanta Fanta‘, I offer: Hava Havarti.

Mis(ter)taken Identity

Calling a credit agency to update errors in your report is a game of chicken that you’re going to lose and you’ll begrudgingly give them all of your vital personal information to verify that you are who you are; fingers, legs and testicles (or ovaries) crossed that they are who they are. I hope the new ‘me’ enjoys those student loans. Ha ha he ha ha ho, it’s funny because of the excessive cost of higher education in this country.

Analog Time

I read an article today that said that kids these days don’t know why we use the terms clockwise or counter-clockwise. Or what they mean. I think we’re expecting too much from kids. As long as they know where my next beer is, I’m good.

Random 4-year old reading this: “That gives me an idea for an app.”

Trumpty

Stop whatcha doin’
’cause I’m about to ruin
the image and the style that ya used to.
I look funny,
but yo I’m makin’ money, see
so yo world I hope you’re ready for me.

Now gather round
I’m the tweetin’ fool in town
and I like to fly to states that are battlegrounds.
I’m sellin’ dried steaks and gaudy ties off my shelf
so just let me introduce myself…

My name is Trumpty, pronounced with an Umpty.
Yo ladies, oh how I like to hump thee.
And all the GOP candidates – please allow me to bump thee.
I’m steppin’ tall, y’all,
and just like Humpty Dumpty
you’re gonna fall when Fox News pumps me.
I like to scream,
I like my hair funky,
I’m spunky. I like my orange skin lumpy.
I’m sick wit dis, straight Wharton mack
but sometimes I get ridiculous
I’ll eat up all your debate time with my gibberish
hey yo fat girl, c’mere-are ya ticklish?
Yeah, I called ya fat.
Look at me, I’m orange,
It never stopped me from gettin’ busy
I’m a freak
I like the girls with the boom
I once got busy in a private yacht club bathroom
I’m crazy.
Allow me to loudly praise me.
They all say I’m the greatest ever but it just don’t faze me.
I’m still gettin’ in the girls’ pants
and I even got my own locker room parlance.

The Trumpty Dance is your chance to do the Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, come on and do the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, just watch me do the Trumpty Trump.
Do ya know what I’m doin’, doin’ the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.

People say “Yo, Trumpty, you’re really funny lookin'”
that’s all right ’cause I get things cookin’
Ya stare, ya glare, ya constantly try to compare me
but ya can’t get near me
I give ’em more, see, and on the floor, B,
all the girls they adore me
Oh yes, ladies, no one respects you more than me
’cause in a 69 my Trumpty nose will tickle ya rear.
My hands are small, uh-uh I’m not ashamed
I talk about my pickle, I’m still gettin’ paid
I get laid by the ladies, ya know I’m in charge,
both how I’m livin’ and my face is orange
I’m verbally abusive, my politics polluted,
I use words that don’t mean nothin’, like really really really great
I like to shout ya fired, and if ya missed it,
I’m the one who said I can just grab ’em in the [biscuits].
My ego is fragile, I need the starlight.
Well, yeah, I guess it’s obvious, I also like to fight.
All ya had to do was give Trumpty a chance
and now I’m gonna do my dance.

The Trumpty Dance is your chance to do the Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, come on and do the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, just watch me do the Trumpty Trump.

*

White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, just keep on doin’ the hump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.

Let’s get stoopid!

Love in the time of the singularity

Maybe in the future we won’t fuck anymore. Just touch our heads together. Our heads growing bigger and more powerful. Everything tied up in those neurons, all sensory perception barricaded there. All nerve endings migrating to our temples. And when two heads, propped up on mechanical, android bodies because our hollow skeletal bones are insufficient for the task, touch, those ‘beings’ will orgasm simultaneously. Feel united, complete. That will be love. No heartache no despair no cock thrusting and depositing semen. No quivering vaginal walls. Just skin, two patches of skin, residing directly external to the prefrontal cortex, connecting at an atomic level, conducting electrical impulses, messages, communicating infinite adoration.

Fantasy Football

Let me tell you about my Fantasy Football League…

The football is made of frozen Snickers smushed together, and on fourth down teams can stick, punt, or eat the football. Instead of helmets the players wear helicopter hats, which are safe because no one is allowed to tackle, only tickle. The field-lines are made of confectioners sugar, and each goalpost is padded with a million Twizzlers. The cheerleaders roam the sidelines on rainbow colored unicorns during the game, blowing kisses at the fans and flashing them spontaneously.  The coaches don’t bark orders into headsets; they signal messages to the players, like I love you for who you are, with glow sticks.

Baloney (or) Beer

Looking back on my life, I notice there was never an age when both baloney and beer were part of my diet.  Additionally, the few years during which I had outgrown baloney but had not yet started drinking beer coincided with my ideal weight, fastest running times, and peak overall health.

If there’s some lesson in all of this I have no idea what it is.

If a tree falls in an office building

The escalators in my office building and the adjoining hotel run all the time. Even when there’s no one riding them. The motor moves the belt, the belt moves the steps around and around. It feels wasteful. Someone should invent an escalator motion sensor. Not me. But someone who knows about those things. Maybe the person/people who invented the motion sensor door. Those tend to work pretty well.

I hate golf but my god do I love the sound of smacking balls

Spuds and I hit up the driving range the other day. I hate golf. I hate golf shirts. I cringe at the sight of a golfing glove hanging out the pocket of some guy’s pleated khakis. If some guy starts telling you his recent golf scores… fart in his face and run.

And yet, THWACK. I love that sound. THWACK. Damn, that feels good. THWACK. THWACK. Golf sucks, but the sound of a driver crushing a ball is divine. I know this much is true.

Fumblings in Key West (or, Honk Out With Your Conch Out)

Key West is known as the Conch Republic. Locals are called Conchs. Key West Sunset Ale is marketed as ‘The Beer of the Conch Republic’. I had conch ceviche and conch fritters at a fish spot in Key West. They sell conch shells at all the major tourist shops. Basically, there’s a lot of conch over there.

As we drove by one gigantic conch shell situated on a street corner, my wife said, ‘That looks like a huge vagina.’

Stumblings in Key West

Key West and Ernest Hemingway are somewhat synonymous with each other (at least I think so). So, being that I’m in Key West and an Ernest Hemingway fan (having read quite a bit of his oeuvre), and domiciled during our stay exactly across the street from the Hemingway house, going on the tour seemed inevitable. Plus, those darn six-toed cats just get me all warm and fuzzy inside. Meow. Pet. Meow. Poop.

Our tour guide was evocative and well-spoken with an enthusiasm that swung between true Hemingway buff and pinkie scoop of China White. I think he was an actor, too, which may, also, explain the searing intensity in his eyes when he recited a particularly engrossing detail. Like when he got to the part of Hemingway shotgunning his brains out.

Hemingway womanized, was married four times, had a number of major concussions (nine reported), was bi-polar, a raging alcoholic, went through electro-shock therapy, changed the literary landscape and only lived in this house from 1931 to 1939.

They’re up to to 53 cats now.

Quite the legacy.

Jumblings in Key West

Snippets from the past two days and nights.

  • At a bar, drinking beer, listening to the pumped-in music. First, there was a song by Cake. A short period later, a long by Spoon. A spoonful of cake, so to speak.
  • Happy-hour at a waterfront fish house. 50% off drinks and appetizers. We had conch fritters, conch ceviche, 1/2 lb of peel-n-eat shrimp and baked oysters with a key lime butter breadcrumb topping. There’s a reason why restaurants can sell their food half-off and not lose money in the transaction. As we walked away, I felt my stomach speaking to me in jabs. Luckily, nothing worse happened. The half-off mojito wasn’t good either.
  • Walking around during the day. “I’m already sweating through my shirt,” I said to my wife. “So was that guy,” she said. “Which guy?” “That guy we passed.” I didn’t see any guy. “Good.”
  • The only reliable signal (other than our hotel’s wi-fi) is the Starbuck’s wi-fi. We stand outside Starbucks for 10 minutes plotting our next foray. We don’t order anything. It’s okay, I stopped for Starbucks at least 4x on the way down. They owe me.
  • Harry S. Truman had a vacation spot in Key West dubbed ‘The Little White House’. It’s not, as I presumed, a miniature version of the White House. It’s just white and smaller than the White House. We walk to the main entrance, curious to see if it’s free. It isn’t, but next to the gift shop is a free exhibit: two rooms off to the side with some Truman paraphernalia. We walk in. Pictures of Truman abound. There’s even a guayabera shirt encased in plexiglass next to a picture that appears to be of Truman in the shirt. Points for authenticity. In the second room, there’s a couple. A wife and husband, 50-60s, white. The husband is fat and sitting in a chair. I say hi, look around. There’s a poster with all the presidents ranked up until the latter Bush (from a 2009 C-Span poll). The headline reads, Truman ranked 5th in poll of best presidents. I look at the ranking and wonder why James Buchanan ended up last. The fat husband says, “Is Obama on there?” I say: “No, the poll was taken in 2009.” He grumbles. I keep looking for John Adams. There he is two above his son, John Quincy Adams. “Want to know where I’d rank him?” I think I already know. I sidestep: “Looks like people liked John Adams more than his son.” I leave the room, never to return.
  • Eating another meal to wash away the taste from happy-hour, I order a beer, Key West Sunset Ale. “Is this a local beer?” I ask the waitress. Whenever I can drink locally, I try to. “It was local, but they got too big and moved to the mainland.” “Oh. Do you have anything else local?” “No.” “Okay, I’ll have that.”
  • There’s a pair of sisters providing live music at dinner. One only sings. The other sings backup and plays keyboard. I tip them and ask them if they can play “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus. The singer says doesn’t know it. The keyboardist laughs and says she’s never played it before. I say, “Me either.” When we leave 25 minutes later, they still hadn’t played it, but they were taking a break watching YouTube videos. I like to think they learned the song and played it later.
  • We got caught in the rain on the way to the Tropic Cinema to watch Jason Bourne. The movie was a mash-up of the previous ones and would’ve been better if I’d never seen any of them. But they still did a bang-up job with the car chases. Get it? It was still raining when we left. We quick-footed it to a bar. Drank. I looked at my wife with faux-seriousness and said, “Tell me your dreams.” She didn’t. We got rained on the whole way back to the hotel.

Mumblings in Key West

I’m in Key West, Florida as of last night and for the next three days. To commemorate my visit I will be taking stock of my activities and encounters via this portal, to share it for all posterity. Amen. Let’s begin.

The time: 10 pm

The location: Cocktail lounge on Duval Street

The scene: A non-indecent menage a trois at the bar (one guy, two girls), a slightly hipster, facial-haired, non-loquacious bartender, a Zoltar machine from the movie Big next to the bathroom. Ceiling treatments. Miami hotel pool music playing (think Thievery Corporation). Cocktail menu. An ode to Hemingway (daiquiri, non-frozen). Nods to Cuba. Reasonably priced.

The eavesdropping: I walked in to an ongoing conversation on the ludicrous price of some bottles of tequila (or mezcal, wasn’t quite sure) by the same producer. Bartender said: “Of all of these, and I’ve had them all, I actually prefer the $400 one to the $1,400.” One of the women said, “I really liked that one [unclear which]. It wasn’t even that expensive, like $30 a shot…definitely not $50.”

The drinks: Expertly-made, could hardly taste the liquor (in a good way), well-balanced, nuanced.

The incidentals: A group of three girls entered while the bartender was occupied making our drinks. A craftsman, he took his time. When he finished, he went to the back to do something, not stopping by the girls first. They left without ordering. He came back in time to see them leave, he gave me a tilted look as if to say, win some, lose some. I didn’t play the Zoltar.

Me love you oolong time

Kid’s don’t know much about tea. Unless it’s iced, sugared and marketed as ‘brisk’. It takes maturity to appreciate the delicateness of tea. Its meditative qualities. The beauty in an unadulterated, grassy, vegetal matcha. The subtle apple sweetness of calming chamomile. The pungent spiciness of freshly brewed ginger tea that continues to warm your chest even after the temperature has diminished.

But my first experience with tea, real tea, was at a Chinese restaurant, where the waiter would unceremoniously deliver a large metal teapot, flip over the miniature, handleless, white porcelain mugs in front of us, pour the tea, then take our order. As a kid, if everyone else is having something, you want it, too. Even if it’s indelectable, like Gefilte fish. So I wanted the tea. And because it was there and available for quick self-refilling, I would drink a lot it.

It was different than the tea that we kept in our house, typically Lipton’s Black tea, with it’s overpoweringly astringent after-taste and mass-produced mediocrity. This, however, was mellow, smooth and slightly sweet without having to add any sugar packets (and, honestly, probably just as mass-produced, but let me continue with my rose-colored memories, thanks). We asked the waiter what type of tea it was. He said, ‘Oolong.’ Oooohhhhh. Back then, something as commonplace as oolong tea is now was exotic, and impossible to find outside of a specialty Chinese purveyor buried in a Chinatown basement. The seller might as well have been sharing space next to Santa’s workshop in a North Pole strip mall.

Now, oolong tea is as easy to procure as it is to walk/drive to your local supermarket and stroll to the tea aisle. And I cherish that evolution. Oolong is the Goldilocks of tea. Not too bitter (green), not too bland (white), not too harsh (black). It’s the tea sweet spot. Oolong. I love you.

p.s. Yes, I’ll make a ‘Me love you oolong time’ t-shirt and market it for sale and retire a billionaire.

The Cods Are Alright

When I was a young lad, I hated fish. Even breaded fishsticks dipped in ketchup, while edible, were nothing more than a consolation dinner.

As a teenager I took to the meatier, fattier variety of fish – grilled salmon and swordfish. Also fried fish n’ chips. Also, I slept 15 hours a day.

I’m older now, late 30s, more sophisticated. I enjoy mild, flaky whitefish with just a hint of lemon and olive oil. I like cod, but I’ve also been known to dabble with halibut, trout, flounder. Whenever I eat fish nowadays, I don my white colonial wig, listen to Brahms, and engage in lengthy monologues on the lives of Giovanni Bellini and Sandro Botticelli, for example. How far I’ve come from those insipid, buffoonish days of fishsticks! Lo! Friends, life is a journey, and I have arrived.

Mine,

Daddy MacTubes

Mergers & Acquisitions

Today, Verizon announced that it will acquire Yahoo!, a company best known for not having any value and being your grandparent’s equivalent of BuzzFeed. That’s like Toys ‘r Us buying KB Toys. Or McDonald’s buying All American Burger. Or Dick’s buying Sports Authority. Or Lumber Liquidators buying National Lumber. Or Barnes & Noble buying Borders. Or Amazon buying Barnes & Noble. Or Netflix buying Blockbuster. Or Taco Bell buying Etsy. Or Home Depot buying Auntie Anne’s. Or Warner Brother’s Studio Store buying a single Granny Smith Apple. Or a baby penguin buying a hotel on Ventnor Avenue. Or a group of housewives sucked into an Avon Ponzi scheme buying nail polish from a beauty supply shop that is not affiliated with Avon. Or a jelly donut buying a bushel of grapes and a pound of sugar and glassware for canning and preserving its own jelly.

Fiction v. Truth – You Be The Judge Judy

Truth is strange – oh man let me tell you MacTuber has seen some crazy stuff (on TV) in his day – but it’s got nothing on fiction. I can’t think of an example right now (or ever) but trust me. In fiction you can say literally anything. Just imagine it, write it down and boom, look ma, fiction. Blahaobgotna! OK, that’s technically not a word, so maybe that’s not fiction. Fiction probably should still be words. On the other side we have truth, which is true. For example, a big potato (if it were real).

The ferocious and epic battle between truth and fiction has raged on like a nuclear wild fire for millions of years throughout the entire universe. It’s also a lifestyle choice. I sometimes like when truth seems like fiction, like the alligator on TV that liked to dance to rap music. Other times I like when fiction seems totally true but for the fact that no one can prove it happened, like Lord of the Rings (especially The Two Towers).

3 Things to Consider After Brexit

  1. Boner Stabone is the best character name in the history of fiction, television, radio, video games, film, etc.
  2. Boner Stabone was not Theo Huxtable’s friend on The Cosby Show, that was Cockroach. Boner was on Growing Pains with Alan Thicke, Kirk Cameron and a young Leo DiCaprio, and other people who are either dead or alive or almost dead or barely alive.
  3. On an overly warm day in Atlanta, a tall Starbucks Coffee-flavored Frappuccino is pretty refreshing.
  4. BONUS: Boner Stabbone…hahahaahahahahahaha…genius.

Note: The guy who played Boner died in 2010…where was his Prince parade?

MacTuber gets Down and Dirty on Brexit “Situation”

I like breasts, OK? What do you expect?  I’m a guy, sometimes I forget to put the seat down when I’m done taking a crap.  Now, this Brexit situation: let’s get in there. It’s big. Almost as big as my knob. The dollar is up, the pound is down, and I’ve got a 24-karat gold butt-plug under my pillow that  just shot up in value 10%. How ’bout them apples? Look, I’m not into politics. I’m not an economist, and I’m no scientist. I once lost 27 straight games of tic-tac-toe to SpudWeb. I can barely read, and when I do, I read out loud while finger tracking. Wait, what was I talking about again? Hi.

Let Them Eat Rhino Horns

People don’t respond well to being told to consume less (weak sauce, moralizing, doesn’t work). But we accept pricing. Perhaps we should reframe our concerns with consumption as a problem of pricing.

Consider a few examples. Front row Laker tickets might cost $12,000. Are middle-class families in the upper deck protesting? No, they’re cheering loudly (and for the Lakers no less…). Can’t afford a big engagement ring? Boo hoo, get a small one. Can’t afford a Ferrari? Buy a Toyota. Can’t afford a Toyota? Take the bus.

Now extend the same exercise of pricing private property to pricing property that we own collectively (i.e., a consumer tax for scarcity). You want shark fin soup? Great, that’ll be $10,000 per bowl. Enjoy its alleged magical healing powers. A hotdog made of snow leopard? Go for it! It costs $500 million and includes a fountain soda. A typical cow burger might cost $200. Golfing on lush greens in the Arizona desert costs $5,000 per hole. Consume away!  If you can’t afford it, get more money. Shit ain’t free, folks. Work harder. We will adjust prices based on scarcity, just like markets for private goods. Failure to pay is theft.

Is Mother Nature trying to tell us something?  

The Hadron collider – the world’s largest atom smasher, located in Switzerland – shut down this past week when a goddamn weasel chewed his way into its electrical panel. A few years ago the collider shorted unexpectedly when a bird flying by dropped a loaf of bread into it (technically a baguette). I’m not religious, but if a third renegade animal stops the collider perhaps we should hold a symposium, kick the tires a bit, make sure our fellow planetary inhabitants are not desperately trying to tell us something?

Death and Dundee

Prince died. So did the female wrestler Chyna. David Bowie died recently. I wrote a thing about that then.

You really can’t go wrong owning a funeral home.

It’s sad, but if we all lived forever we’d never experience loss and, therefore, appreciate life. Only in the transience is there something to yearn for.

I watched Crocodile Dundee, that helped. It has an underrated score. Stirring.