New Product Idea: Breakfast Toothpaste

The best part of waking up used to be Folger’s in your cup. I don’t think that’s still the case. Regardless, I think we can agree that brushing your teeth with a noxious, minty ooze is not in the top ten. Especially when you’re about to drink coffee, eat breakfast, etc. And even if you’re a postprandial tooth brusher, the harsh juxtaposition of flavors is still a major buzzkill.

Therefore, the fine folks at R#P offer something to assuage that unpleasantness, a new line of Breakfast-flavored Toothpaste.

Why should mint and spearmint and peppermint and bubblegum (gross) dominate the toothpaste game? Looking for a toothpaste that is in harmony with your morning? Then try R#P’s French Toast toothpaste. With warm bready notes and a sweetness that comes from pure maple syrup, your tongue won’t believe how clean your teeth are!

We also offer 13 different varieties of our world-famous Coffeenamel Collection™, including your favorites:

  • Canines Cappuccino
  • Deep, Dark Dental Espresso
  • Molar Mocha
  • Incisor Instant Coffee
  • Wisdom Whole Bean

COMING SOON: Scrambled Eggs with Gum Protection!

Find us in the breakfast aisle!


Pretty sure the only reason food spoils is so grocery stores can keep you coming back for more like drug dealers, and absolutely nothing to do with bacteria, chemistry or me just liking to go to the grocery store to hang out by the eggs with no pants on.

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?

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.

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.


Daddy MacTubes

A spoonful of sugar

“Pass the piss stash,” he said.

“The what?” She asked, while he laughed at his own immaturity. His laughter annoyed her, it was too late for such a high-pitched squeal.

“The pistachio gelato.” She looked at him with reproach. “Pleaseeeee.”

She opened the freezer and pulled out a clear plastic container made mint-green from the dessert inside. The label on the container read Sicilian Pistachio. She passed it to him.

Holding the container in one hand, he turned and grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer with the other. He leaned against the counter and twisted the cap off.

“I wonder if the pistachios are from Sicily or if Sicilian refers to the style of the preparation,” he said.

She left the kitchen without comment.

All Natural

I don’t understand why I can’t just eat all the damn sea salt caramel chocolate bars I want without becoming diabetic. Or as many bacon wrapped anythings without having my chest sawed open and my veins suctioned out. Or as many Chick-fil-A Spicy Chicken sandwiches. Or as many buckets of movie theater popcorn layered with real butter-flavoring as I damn well choose. It’s all natural. Every single ounce of it comes from this planet. Something had to live or spawn to become the food that ends up in my stomach. And if was invented in a lab, someone with a pulse and a mother had to get in that lab to grow it, mutate it or invent it. Okay? Seriously, if it exists in reality, it’s natural. Now, who’s with me?

I like cherries

I like their tartness. I usually eat them frozen. They’re pretty great fresh, too, but then you have to eat around the pit and that’s more effort than I really care to give. Plus, in comparison, fresh cherries are typically more expensive per pound. They are also quite enjoyable dried, but only without sugar added. I mean, they’re right up there with blueberries, and definitely higher than strawberries, which tend to be blander than anticipated. The key to flavorful strawberries is to find the smaller variety available at local farmers’ markets, when in season. Those gargantuan, bright, shiny, Rudolph’s nose strawberries have all the looks, but none of the substance. All in all, I prefer cherries.

Biotic Diversity of Opinion

CNN Moderator: Yes or no: Probiotic or antibiotic?

JEB: Yes.

Cruz: I’m probiotic and anti-government. I enjoy yogurt and I don’t believe in government or politics. Vote for me for president.

JEB: Can I just clarify what I said?

Huckabee: Oh boy, I don’t know about yogurt but I’ll tell you this, my granddaddy used to take us out behind the church and slather our backsides in mayonnaise. [crowd cheers]

Trump: Your granddaddy was ineffectual, and, and, I’ll just say it, let’s be honest, he was a total pussy. [crowd cheers]

JEB: Can I, can I say something?

Carson: History shows us that antibiotics were invented by Turks as a common sense approach to keep the slaves healthy while they built the pyramids.

Rubio: Good evening. [shuffling cue cards, sweating]

Christie: Do I like yogurt? I am yogurt. [lifts shirt; crowd gasps, slowly transforms into cheers]

You say potato, I say give me all your money

Is this the world’s most photogenic potato? Photo sells for $1.08m

In light of this notable development in the potato art industry, MacTuber would like to inform R#P readers that the original photograph that graces this blog, signed by MacTuber, the world’s second most influential potato photographer, is now on sale for $875,000.

Confident Italian Chef or High School Bully?

Ay! Ay-you, come over here. I’m not gonna bite. I said come here.

You want a piece of this?

You want some of this?

How about a big plate of that right in your face?

You want that? Is that what you want?

You like it, don’t you? You want some more, is that what you’re telling me?

Yeah, that’s what I thought…


I ordered flan in Milan from a waiter named Jean. He hailed from France, and was snowed in by chance so he decided to remain in the Italian city most renowned for its pants. When the snow melted, he felt it was time to return to his land but first wanted his velvet pants to be dealt with, or belted, just as long as they stayed by his waist when he tilted. So he went to the tailor to submit to a fitting, the old man’s fingers were flitting, and without any warning a pin pricked his skin while he was sitting. He bled through the fabric, a dramatic stain appearing seemingly as if by magic. Not even a napkin pressed firmly against the waiter’s apparently, easily, puncturable flesh could stem the intense seepage, dispensing from his appendage. The waiter expired (his pants hemmed, but not finished with all that was required) and the flan in his thoughts till the end.