We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming of waiting, breath bated, for the second part of my tirade against shitty television doctor shows* to bring you this exciting, unrelated update:
So, the other day while watching Stripes I was reminded of yet another weird, inexplicable childhood crush: John Larroquette. Yes, that's right; the creepy, hypersexual, womanizing lawyer from Night Court.
Seriously? WTF was wrong with adolescent me?
Oh, but also? I forgot about another crush who just so happened to appear in Stripes alongside John Larroquette and a previously mentioned youthful love interest, Bill Murray: John Candy. Except, wait. Not him. Actually, Judge Reinhold.
You know what I really hate these days? If you answered "everything"
then, thank you, you've clearly been paying attention. If you answered
"life-sized dolls" then you're partially right. If you answered "frito
pie" then you're clearly a fucking moron.
No, but, really--you
know what I really fucking hate these days? All these
pseudoscientific doctor shows that have popped up in the past year or
two, peddling an infuriating pastiche of vague, bullshit statistics,
scare tactic proclamations, and retarded-ass computer
simulations/graphics which serve no purpose other than to provide
something at which visual stimuli-addicted Americans can goggle. And by
"all these" shows, I really mean two: The Doctors and The Dr.
Oz Show. There are probably more out there, but we don't have
cable--so my universe only encompasses the choices available on six
channels. Whatever. As far as I'm concerned, two are more than enough.
So,
the first (and really the main) point that I take issue with is all the
pseudoscientific malarkey that's going on here. It brings to mind my brief,
glorious tirade against Tresemme's Hydrology haircare line. Fucking
idiots. It also reminds me of an article from The Onion, my
most trusted news source in these troubled times. (Personally, I would
welcome the addition of Extreme Gravity to the Science Channel's
lineup, but I'm a fucking nerd. Apparently.)
But back to my point:
I hate pseudoscience. It's just so...demeaning. To real science, I
mean. And to those of us who actually value things like evidence and the
scientific method and putting Mentos into Diet Coke and seeing if it
explodes. But seriously--dumbed down pseudoscience makes actual science
seem so much lamer and more easily accessible than it actually is. Not
that science shouldn't be accessible or anything. But there's a
difference between communicating complex scientific ideas and
information in a way which facilitates its understanding...and
simplifying shit to a point where it becomes meaningless and boring. And
hellshitdamnfuckasstitties!--science ain't meaningless and boring! I
think Einstein said that.
More importantly, I take issue with people invoking the ideas of
"science" and "medicine"--or even just using "science-y" sounding words,
as in the case of Tresemme's Hydrology line--in order to establish a
(false) sense of authority. The automatic ceding of authority to
doctors--something which both patients and doctors consciously and
unconsciously participate in--is a cultural tendency I take issue with
as it is. It's a complex interplay that involves ideas about power,
knowledge, bodies, gender, class, race, and a plethora of other annoying
liberal arts college vocabulary words. So it pisses me off that shows
like Dr. Oz and The Doctors not only enthusiastically
perpetuate this kind of shit, but actually make it so much worse by
doing such an embarrassingly bad job of presenting medical
information--like they're airhead anchors on some celebrity gossip show.
The
ultimate problem here is that with this self-generated authority, the
authoritative person (or institution) is granted undeserved legitimacy,
potentially aiding in the justification of ridiculous or harmful ideas.
In other words, people will be more likely to believe some stupid
bullshit The Doctors say (even when it's beyond their scope
within the medical field) simply because they are Doctors,and
also because they are invoking Scientific Statisticsto (weakly)
support their claims.
************
Stay tuned for the exciting second half of this boringass tirade, because I'm too lazy to finish writing it right now!
So, just in case any of you missed this in the last post (always mouseover pictures, people--there's gold [or at least dirt] in them thar hills), I really feel the need to point this out:
Fig. 1-1 Mysterious Pubic Hair
Don't ask me why there is a random pubic hair on the plate. There just is.
I purchased, documented, and consumed the motherfucking KFC Double Down on its release day. All in the name of science/journalism/public education/social justice/etc., naturally.
"But, Sarah," you say between bites of Double Down, Colonel's Sauce dribbling down your shiny double chin, "if you sampled KFC's new abomination/masterpiece (one could call it, perhaps, an "abominasterpiece"?) over three weeks ago, why has it taken you so long to share the Good News with us, your loyal readers/creepy stalkers/random people who come to your blog via searches for weird shit like 'college teachers boobz' and 'enormous snatch'*?"
The answer is simple, my friends: after consuming an abominasterpiece of such epic proportions, my Fried Chicken Shame Spiral (FCSS) tailspinned my ass into a state of altered consciousness, causing me to wander in a Carlos Castaneda-esque state for several weeks. When I finally came to my senses, I was cramming used band-aids into my mouth whilst squatting in the ruins of the Beach Waterpark. In Mason, Ohio. It was kind of weird.
But all that's behind us now. Let's just put that silliness out of our minds and forge ahead with the task at hand: my consumption of the KFC Double Down.
First, let's view the photographic evidence:
Ta-daaaaa!
Wow. That was totally like a classy photo essay that one would see, perhaps, hung in some sort of high-end museum or shitty cafe. Or perhaps a shitty museum and a high-end cafe. Either way, I wouldn't be caught dead there, as I hate all varieties of museums and cafes. Because they're for pretentious assholes. "Oh, look at me! I'm in a café! I drink fancy coffee drinks and most certainly don't eat peon-oriented things like the KFC Double Down! Let's go to that múséúm and look at árt! La dee dah!" You know?
Whatever.
Let's get down to the nitty-gritty: the taste test.
So, basically the Double Down was what you would expect from any standard fast food establishment: kind of good, kind of gross. The end.
What? You want a more in-depth description? Fine, I'll break it down:
Contributing factors to "good": fried; bacon; cheese; mayonnaise (apparently, "Colonel's Sauce" equals a mildly spicy mayonnaise).
Contributing factors to "gross": fried; bacon; cheese; mayonnaise.
The thing is, food like this is scientifically calibrated to taste relatively good. They make sure all the right taste chemicals are present to hit all the right spots: salt, fat, sweet, bacon. So it would be pretty much impossible for the Double Down to be a total flop.
The other thing is, food like this is fucking gross. Greasy, heavy, simultaneously weirdly bland and yet overly flavored...Plus, seriously, there's just too much fucking chicken involved in the Double Down. The Mister and I split one between us (because, really, we would have felt so incredibly dirty to actually eat one apiece) and I could barely choke down my entire half. I like chicken and all, but Jesus Christ on Roller Skates--that's a lot of goddamn chicken!
Overall, I would rate the Double Down as a decided "meh." Did I enjoy it? Kind of, but mostly on an anthropological level. Would I order it again? Hellz no. On top of making me feel fairly gross and giving me a case of chickenbellyitis, them shit's expensive! Just the sandwich by itself cost nearly $6. And I would so much rather spend that kind of money on something both tasty and good for me--like a Five Guys bacon cheeseburger with everything on it.
Hellz yeah.
*These are, indeed, actual searches that brought people to this site. I feel simultaneously proud and horrified: prourrified.
Dear Anyone Under the Age of, Oh, 55 and Who is of No Relation to Me/Isn't Sanctioned to Stick Anything in My Hooha:
How R U? Isn't it fun being under the age of 55 and of no relation to me/not sanctioned to stick anything in my hooha? I totes agree, for shizzle! OMG, LOL, etc.
However, here's the deally, yo: Don't call me "Hon." Or "Darlin'." Or "Dear." Or "Babe." Or "Sweetie." Or whatever the fuck else annoying, patronizing term of familiarity you choose to unnecessarily tack on to the end of your sentence which is directed at me. Or I will punch you in the fucking throat.
I'm not exactly sure what you feel you are accomplishing by doing this, but it needs to stop. It's not cute; it's condescending.
Take special heed of this warning if you are a young woman who is
approximately in my age bracket, and take doubleplus heed if you are obviously
younger than me. I realize that I have a fresh-faced, youthful appearance*, but I'm clearly not 8-fucking-years-old and you are clearly not a frazzled, middle-aged Jersey diner waitress named Flo.
Fuck off.
Love,
Sarah
*The other day a drunk homeless dude told me that I don't look a day over eighteen. Then he asked if I was married. Everything's coming up Milhouse!
But, hey, guess what? It's your lucky day: that KFC-based non-memory about my hatred of ridiculous fast food gimmicks can now be replaced with a KFC-based real-memory about my hatred of ridiculous fast food gimmicks. Don't say I never do anything for you. Or to you. But maybe we shouldn't get into that right now.
Ahem.
And now, without further ado, I would like to present for your mocking/secret, shameful eating in your car before you get home from work...
The KFC Double Down!!!*
Yes, that's right. A sandwich composed of meat, meat, cheese, and sauce. No bun. Oh, but wait. There is a bun. And it's made out of motherfucking fried chicken, bitches!
Here's what the KFC website has to say:
This one-of-a-kind sandwich features two thick and juicy boneless white
meat chicken filets (Original Recipe® or Grilled), two pieces of bacon,
two melted slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese and Colonel's
Sauce. This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun!
There's really so much I could say about that paragraph, I don't even know where to begin. Oh, but how about this: what the fuck is "Colonel's Sauce"? And, really, could they have used a less appetizing/more sexually suggestive phrase than "this product is so meaty"? Also, if you're going to abandon your last, tattered shred of dignity and actually order this pile of ridiculousness, why in the good Lord's name would you puss out and get it with grilled chicken? I mean, come on. Don't be a weenis. Also, don't be a wenis.
So. The Double Down is hitting America's collective sweaty thighs on April 12th. "But Sarah," you say, "I have a busy work/school/fast food schedule. I don't have time to remember what days new and ridiculous sandwiches are released to the public!" Well, never fear, you busy beavers: there's a handy countdown clock.
If you follow the above link you can also watch the official commercial for the Double Down, which pretty much makes it clear that this is a MAN SANDWICH, and not some sort of faggy, Atkins Diet-type thing. Thank god.
Now, I understand that the knee-jerk reaction to the Double Down (following the pre-knee-jerk reaction of "I want to eat that," of course) is some amalgamation of horror/disgust/bewilderment caused by America's ever expanding capacity for grossness. However, because I have such stringent standards for this blog, and because I am so totally fucking scientific, but really, mostly, because I care about you so very much, dear reader, I did some extremely rigorous caloric comparison research**. And, amazingly enough, it turns out it's not so bad. If you don't believe me, just examine the following Scientific Food Chart of Science (SFCS):
KFC Double Down: 540 calories, 32 grams of fat
Carl's Jr.
Original Six Dollar Burger: 890 calories, 54 grams of fat
McDonald's
Big Mac: 540 calories, 29 grams of fat
As you can see thanks to the fabulous SFCS above, the Double Down is comparable to a Big Mac and actually comes out way ahead of the Six Dollar Burger. Surprising, no? See, that's what happens when you let your jerky knees do all your thinking for you: you potentially miss out on an awesome, ridiculous, horrible, über-gimmicky sandwich.
If you need further convincing of the Double Down's not-quite-as-horrible-as-you-thought-it-was-ness, you can feel somewhat comforted by something a friend pointed out earlier today: "It's the American [Chicken] Cordon Bleu." Fair enough. And classy. Eat this potentially delicious abomination and feel classy, America!
Wait, WTF?? When did this post morph from a rant into me trying to convince you to eat the Double Down? Oh, yeah. I know. It was when I decided that I definitely have to try this at least once, way back at the beginning of the post***.
I will drag you into my Fried Chicken Shame Spiral (FCSS).
FCSS for life!
* You know I'm serious about this, because I used three goddamn exclamation points.
** I went to three websites.
*** Remember that whole "shameful eating in your car before you get home
from work" thing? That will undoubtedly prove to be autobiographical. Sigh.
Usually my family does some sort of secular-type activity involving food, like breakfast or brunch or second breakfast or elevenses. But this year, perhaps in keeping with their New Year's resolution to be crappy parents, my Mom and Dad totally ditched us to go hang out with their friends who have a hot tub. Oh yeah? Well, two can play at that game, progenitors. If you need me, I'll be sitting alone in my shitty little bathtub that's incapable of filling to a satisfying water level, shoving cold ham into my mouth and crying. Jealous? Too bad. You can't come.
Anyhoo. Yesterday was actually a very enjoyable day for me, despite any rumors you may have heard about crying in bathtubs. I had a very satisfying workout sesh (that's what we call them in The Business), followed by a very pleasant afternoon spent sitting on a bar patio, drinking my drank and reading a book. Did I mention that the weather was fucking fantastic? Well, it was. And we all know how I feel about pleasant weather: it's pleasant. After I was nice and liquored up, I went for a leisurely drive around town with all the car windows down, singing along to The Rolling Stones. Just kidding about that last sentence--I would never be so irresponsible. It was The Beatles.
After careening home, I took a brief nap on the couch (a feat of which I'm rarely capable) and then it was off for a walk around my various neighborhood parks, complete with the continuing perfect weather.
Oh, but wait--you thought Easter was over, didn't you? Or maybe you were just hoping that I was done with my mundane blabberings? Well, as Zombie Jesus would say (and in keeping with the spirit of the day): "Fuck you, I'm still talking."
So. After I got home from my fabulous walk (which, I'm proud to say, only involved one random car honking at my hott azzz), The Mister and I went over to a newly opened establishment, the ABQ Brew Pub, in order to watch the first Sox/Yankees game of the season and eat some schmancy, expensive appetizers (which were actually pretty good--we were just feeling a little cheap at that moment). It was a great game (for those of you who can actually pay attention to baseball on TV--I am not counted among you, however) and a very pleasant way to end a long, hard day of Easter worship.
Oh, wait! I almost forgot the most important part of the whole day: I was able to wear my hair in Heidi braids (what I like to call "milkmaid braids") for the very first time! This is a most exciting development, my friends, as this hairstyle was the original inspiration for growing my hair long. So, from now on, you can expect to see me with a glorious hair-crown atop my head at all times. Or at least until I get too lazy and/or hot once the summer hits and then chop off my ridiculously thick hair.
And for this, I thank you, Zombie Jesus. Great weather, relaxing activities, and awesome hairdos: you made the day of Your resurrection a truly glorious experience.
So, I have this problem at parties wherein I end up parking myself next to the food area (FA) all goddamn night. Maybe it's not actually a problem...but I'm pretty sure it is. (Furthermore, when I'm at some sort of function that doesn't have an FA, I tend to get a little huffy/unsure of where I'm supposed to stand all goddamn night. That's definitely a problem.)
The other night I was at a lovely affair that featured a Very Nice Spread (VNS), which included cute little sandwiches, fruits/veggies, and candy. And cheese. Little, delicious cubes of various varieties of cheese. And every time I filled up my plate for another go-round, I would select two cubes from each variety and think to myself:
Throughout my long, illustrious career as an Awesome Lady Whose Personal Tastes Frequently Veer Into Some Weird Shit (ALWPTFVISWS), I've found myself, from time to time, harboring celebrity crushes on some people who most others consider "conventionally unattractive" or perhaps "weird-looking" or maybe even "kind of child molester-y."
Well, fuck you, America. I'm not ashamed of my proclivity for weird hottiez. Here is a sampling of my lust interests, in no particular order of hottnezzz:
1) Freddie Mercury. What is it about this man that does it for me? Is it the gayness? The buckteeth? The satin jumpsuits? I'm pretty sure it's the last one.
Don't stop me now.
2) Bill Murray (specifically, 1970s-era SNL Bill Murray). I love me a funny man. With pockmarks, apparently. Oh, Todd--when will you leave Lisa Loopner and realize our perfect, perfect love??
Star Wars/If they should bar wars/Please let these Star Wars/Stay.
3) Jonathan Pryce. I can't really offer much insight into this one, other than that he possesses the usual features I'm drawn to (dark hair, sizable nose, two heads), plus I was totally obsessed with Brazil in high school/freshman year of college--which are, as we all know, known as "the awkwardly sexy years."
Have you got a 27B-6?
4) Kevin Spacey. Yeah, I don't know. Just...hottt.
Hand me the keys, you fucking cocksucker.
5) Jareth, the Goblin King (AKA David Bowie in Labyrinth) [not to be confused with Cherith Cutestory, maritime lawyer, who is also totally hott, but in a more socially acceptable way]. I can't remember if I've ever talked about this here, but when I was a kid I had a gigantic crush on Jareth. Which isn't really all that weird, I guess--except for the fact that I wasn't sure if Jareth was a man or a woman. I was confused by the hair, makeup, and outfits (which all read female to me). But then there was the crotch. The giant, bulging crotch. Which would seem to communicate "male." Because I was so incredibly enlightened as a kid, however, I was comfortable with fluid gender/sexuality boundaries--so I was like, "I don't care; whatever it is, it's HAWT!" (And, yes, I did think with semicolons and xtreme, all caps misspellings as a young child.)
6) Cameron Frye (AKA Alan Ruck in Ferris Bueller's Day Off). Again, I don't feel like this crush is necessarily weird--I mean, Alan Ruck isn't a bad looking fellow. I guess I just think it's kind of strange in that he was definitely neither the intended, nor the actual, Seriously Crush-Worthy Dude (SCWD) in the movie. But, you know, I like to stick it to The Man and whatnot.
Call me sir, goddammit.
The End (For Now)
[Note: If it so happens that you, dear reader, are among the thousands of men with whom I've had some sort of sexual-ish interaction, please don't interpret this post as any sort of comment on your own (weird) attractiveness. Instead, consider it a celebration of the fact that you, despite your weird attractiveness, can somehow manage to have a sexual-ish interaction with someone as awesome/conventionally attractive as me.
Also, I just realized that these are mostly childhood crushes, so maybe you can make yourself feel better by assuming that my tastes have improved significantly as an adult. But probably not.]
My friends and I made this the other night (spontaneously) whilst standing around a fire bowl in the driveway, surrounded by various junks (and next to a random shopping cart): hence the hobo camp reference.
