9.12.2009

Jeremiah Original Recipes: Potadog*


INGREDIENTS:

1 Idaho Huge Potato
1 Hotdog (cheese suggested)

Tools:

Microwave
Powerdrill
Big Drill-bit



1 Drill through the potato center, lengthwise.

2 Attempt to stuff hotdog in, fail, try smaller hotdog.

3 Microwave on POTATO setting


4 Serve with a dollop of sour cream. Best paired with Pernod's absinthe.

5 Eat it.









*I came up with this idea independently of anyone else. It may already exist, but those people are jerks.

9.05.2009

The Bastard Filter

In the past year three people have made remarkably similar comments about the stupid crap I say. All were concerned/afraid of the stuff that I think but then decide not to share.
Margarita"It's hard to tell what you're thinking."
Martini"Ah. Thanks, I guess."
Margarita"It's probably terrible, isn't it?"
Martini"...yes."
The only person who sees me without this filter is, appropriately, my wife, who greets the uninterrupted flow with alternating giggles and disgust.
Real life example:
Wine"A woman was hit by a bus today; she was 'apparently jogging'. How can you be 'apparently' jogging?"
Martini"I'd imagine they felt it too recklessly presumptuous to assume she was skipping. Or they just assumed based on her jogging shorts and sport top. Probably said it so that people wouldn't jump to the conclusion that it was a suicide. Did she die?"
Wine"No, she's in the hospital in critical condition."
This is where I would normally grunt thoughtfully and walk away. But familiarity has lowered my defenses.
Martini"...I wonder what the treatment is for acute bus-itus."
Wine"...what?"
Martini"Well, obviously it's acute bus-itus. Chronic bus-itus would be if a bus backed over you slowly over a period of 10 years. That's not very common."
Wine"..."
Martini"They probably prescribe 'putting all your organs back in' and years of therapeutic 'not getting hit by buses'."
Wine "You're stupid."
Martini"Yes. This is true."
Drink icons taken from here: http://www.pixeljoint.com/pixelart/28897.htm. I'm a martini, wife is a glass of wine, and the margarita is an amalgam of three other people. Bonus for Matthew:


9.04.2009

Origins of Tradition #1: Drawing Straws


This is the best model for government: "The 
program that draws the shortest straw gets its 
funding cut. Looks like it's you again, 
Education."
Drawing straws is one of those proud traditions practiced by island castaways/potential cannibals and semi-inebriated wingmen the world over. What better way to decide the damned than by having blind chance make the poor bastard solely responsible for his/her own defeat?

This is just one of the methods of sortition out there, and one of the oldest. No matter whether you pick a black-marked piece of paper out of a hat to see if you're responsible for a good harvest, or have your voter registration number "honor" you with a spot on a jury, beating the long odds is the last thing you want to do.

But who do we have to thank for this stressful game of blind pickup sticks? My theory: look no further than 16th-century explorer Jorge de Meneses (his daughter, Paola Meneses Silva, was the founder of PMS), the proud natives of New Guinea, and cold harsh ethnocentrism.
Natives like nothing more than to trick tourists 
into trying on a "visitors gourd", a special 
ornament carefully cured in spiced taro root, 
in order to give the honored guest "vigor of
movement" during dancing, which is said to 
spontaneously occur shortly after adorning 
the gourd. It is held in place with razor wire

Back in the 1500's, New Guineans were known for three things:
  1. Their papua (Malaysian, literally: "beautiful afros").
  2. Fantastic pig roasts.
  3. The impressive Koteka, or penis gourd.
The penile sheath, or horim, comes in many shapes and sizes, is worn up, down and side to side. And, despite where you thought I was going with this, the length of the gourd has nothing to do with status within the group--it's just an unusual evolution of human modesty, the echidna of pants.

This didn't stop proto-anthropologists and pre-colonialists from jumping to the same conclusions as you did, you filthy racist. In the same way that every brown person was accused of people-eatin', early sailors immediately decided that those with the biggest phallocrypt had to be the top native (Note: Sailors are the same group of people that thought Manatee=Mermaid).

Sailors—who have had some of the most infamous (and delicious) outcomes involving "drawing straws"—are also known for drinking, making up stories, and being kind of bastards.

Thus I posit: One night at sea, drunk on the captain's rum, fresh from a shore leave that gifted them with brand-new types of VD, a bunch of Portuguese sailors sat around the concertina and started talking shit about the guys with the phallocarps (the least of which being the disturbing number of official synonyms for "cock squash").

The story that made it out of that night probably went something like this:
Once a year, all the boys who are around the age of 16 undergo the Ritual of Manhood. There's the regular feasting, feats of strength, and dancing, but the unusual bit comes at the end, when the new men are welcomed as adults and are assigned their social class and duties.
A reed mat is brought out, with the tips of penis gourds sticking out the end, lined up to appear to all be of the same length. One by one, those who used to be mere boys go up and choose their koteka. At the end of the ceremony, they are lined up from longest gourd to shortest and given their life's assignment. Those with the longest gourds are sub-chiefs, those with middling-sized are hunters, all the way down to one unlucky individual, whose gourd barely fits over his terrified manhood.
He is the short gourd, the digger of latrine pits and one on whom babies spit. Even the yam-peelers laugh at him. His is a life of shame and despair.
An optimistic rom-com.

I'm sure this story was hilarious and light-hearted until a month later when five of them found themselves adrift on a packing crate, their ship scuttled by a storm. One man, half mad with sunstroke and starvation, had been making dolls out of the straw within the crate, which I'm sure was used to protect a dining set (maximum irony). A couple of the dolls are of the New Guineans, and perhaps for a few hours they took their minds off their crippling hunger pangs by recounting their foolish story.

Maybe they were quiet for some time after that, having been too weak to laugh and so thirsty that their smiles cracked their sun-and-salt-dried cheeks.

Then one of them looks down and the pile of varying-length straw "gourds", licks his lips, and says "I have an idea..."