Friday, February 20, 2015

Bacon, anyone?

If you don't want to play with explosives, this is a pretty effective method of getting rid of wild hogs.

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PAINFULLY cute.

This is so utterly adorable that I can't stop watching it. I also can't stop laughing...but that's me. I was never much of a mother, either. I was always the one laughing the hardest instead of running to their aid. Oh well...they both survived....just don't ask them about all their fond memories....HAHAHA!

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A Good Idea

Hey...it could work.


Even the Pope thinks so.

The Unintended Consequences...


Lovers' Quarrel?

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Hell has no fury like a goat scorned.



How to NOT stick the landing.

At all. Ever. Even with help.

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How many times can YOU land after only jumping once?



Get Your Eye Bleach...

Over at Ace of Spades Headquarters, THIS is what started my day. Not as good as learning that we dropped nukes on ISIS overnight, but still pretty nice.




Of course, Andy, who posted this is nicer than I. He left off the picture. Me? No way. The mug of DWS is sooo effing perfect as the picture of Democratic Crazy that it just SCREAMS to be a part of this uplifting little message. You can just hear her garbling another bon not.

Of course, the Koch brothers did it. They have such powerful right-wing juju that they get you coming AND going. If the poor widdle Democrats hadn't attacked them, they would have pulled off their stealth wins. But because they did attack them, they pulled of their stealth wins. HAHAHA! The sweeping losses at the midterms had NOTHING to do with the IRS targeting, the NSA spying, the disastrous Obamacare rollout, the shitty economy and invisible recovery, the insane debt and defiant spending, the Arab Spring, Benghazi, the government shutdown...I could go on.

No. No, those things are completely unimportant and did not affect the outcome at all. It was the Koch brothers. They are some powerful magic.

I love Democrats best when they are left struggling to explain why everyone hates them.

Good morning, kittens.




Thursday, February 19, 2015

The Unwanted Sword


‘Tis thus a wicked century begins—

With slaughtered innocents—like all the rest,

And God is mocked by pious, bloody sins

The blasphemy of thinking murder blest.

Our people cry for peace—they bring us war.

We long for love—they bring us death and hate.

So we appeal, as we have done before,

To let the Lord of Battles choose our fate.

The way ahead is hard and long and bleak,

The sword is thrust, unwanted, in our hand.

But for our murdered children we must seek

To extirpate this terror from our land.

A grim and angry nation counts the toll,

And bids our waiting legions now, “Let’s Roll.”


Robert A. Hall

Former SSgt, USMC




Wednesday, February 18, 2015

#JobsForISIS





Because this...

Apparently a good jobs program is the answer.

So a good jobs program is Obama's secret to fighting ISIS? Great. He can't even put Americans back to work. How the hell is he going to get these goat-humpers jobs?

But, as much as it feels like we're all laughing as the world burns, it's been pretty funny over on Twitter today. I was supposed to be finalizing ads and working on a new label...but I barely made it out of Twitterland to make a deadline on a few things. Oh well...tomorrow is another day.

But today, the Twitterverse was AFLAME with snark about the rank stupidity of the Obama administration. Frankly, I don't think they're that stupid. I think they are that smug. They can't see the danger when they are so certain that their superior intelligence and understanding will win the day.

O. M. F. G.

So here are some of the better pics of the day.

SooperMexican




Selling handmade pillow covers on Etsy (Iowahawk)

It's only funny in an apocalyptic kind of way.



"I would unleash the wardogs of hell on those bastards."

I am in complete agreement, Joe Dan. And my "wardogs" would be shiny, shiny nukes. Who cares if the area is uninhabitable for a decade or so? Who's ever going to live there with these jokers in charge? Might as well nuke the living shit out of it now so that things can start healing.

And if I was an innocent caught in this whole mess, I would STILL pray that the nukes would come. So much better to die in the fight against evil than to simply be brutally lost to it...dying because evil is unchecked.


Sunday, February 15, 2015

An Evening of Fine Dining

Farm Boy and I went to a "special" dinner the other evening. The dinner was held in a woman's home where she has installed a professional kitchen and turned a large room into a dining space squeezed to the very limits of cozy with five tables. To avoid all the regulations, requirements, licensing, and inspections that are necessary to open an actual restaurant in California, the owner hit on the idea that she would merely invite "friends" into her home for a lovely meal. You must be a member, which is a $1.00 fee, so perhaps setting it up as a private club also helps her avoid legal crap. All monies for the cost of the meal and drinks are considered "donations." Then, once or twice a month, she holds dinners on the Friday and Saturday of a particular weekend, seating 24 people twice in one evening. She posts the menu and features the chef on her website, and sends out email invitations to members. Sounded interesting to me! What we didn't know until we arrived and were seated was this terrific idea also entailed a signed paper from each guest that if we died of food poisoning, etc., we could not hold her or the kitchen responsible.

Despite the rather unsettling thought that my signature on that paper could actually prove necessary, the idea of running a restaurant without rules was intriguing and appealed to my renegade "fuck the government" nature, so I signed away my rights -- or signed my own death certificate, depending on how this meal would turn out - and decided to make the best of it. I really wanted it to be fabulous and memorable; Farm Boy just wanted to survive after I forged his signature.

C'est la vie. Bon appetit!

Well, we didn't die, but it wasn't memorable. It was thoroughly disappointing, to be truthful. I will admit right now that I am not that easy to impress with food, but I am also fairly accepting of that fact and manage to find something pleasant about almost anything I order in a restaurant. In other words, I may rarely roll my eyes, gasp in delight and savor every mouthful, but I generally can enjoy any meal as perfectly serviceable. This wasn't even that. But we didn't die, which is what Farm Boy likes to point out every time I bitch about what a disappointment it was.

Part of the reason for my serious criticism of this place is that it is a fabulous business model from a profit standpoint, and from a chef's standpoint -- so it was even more disappointing that it was done so poorly. Each meal is completely set by the chef who then has the luxury of preparing a menu exactly as they see the courses building on each other. There is absolutely no waste and the kitchen can be run like a catering operation. There are only two seatings a night. Easy peesy. I could run a restaurant like that. Basically, they are catering two identical parties for 24 on the same night. Obviously much of the preparation and cooking can be done ahead of time. The cost was waaaaay overpriced because every course was teeny weeny, the pours of wine were ridiculously small, and so, by my conservative calculations, they were making out like bandits! Shit! Even the napkins were no more than 5 inches by 4 inches big. Cover your dress? Yeah? Fuck you...we don't follow no stinking rules. Well, okay then. How about plates? Another big finger. Our first course, an antipasto course, was served on little wooden cutting blocks with legs, so your food was perched 8 inches above the table and threatened to roll off every time you attempted to pick up a bite. This
The infamous chopping blocks. You thought I was kidding.
necessitated that everyone at our table of six, Farm Boy, myself, and four strangers, all self-consciously fixate on their chopping blocks like children allowed to sit at the grownups table for the first time, carefully poised over the precariously perched food, praying they weren't going to be the one who saw an olive roll off the high, flat surface and bounce gaily to the table or floor. We did see one plate halfway through the meal, for our fish course, but it left and never returned. The main course was a bite of pork over polenta served in a tiny little bowl, and imagine my delight when the chopping blocks showed up again for dessert! Even better, this time the chopping blocks, holding two utterly flat, tough, chewy chocolate cookies sandwiching a fallen whipped cream filling, were accompanied by little itty bitty glasses which contained a chocolate sauce. It tasted just like Jello pudding. I. Kid. You. Not. Of course, that's if you could manage to taste it. Honest to God, half of the people at our table, Farm Boy included, had been left with cream soup spoons which were simply too big to fit into the teensy tiny little precious glasses. This predicament, coming as it did at the end of a rather exhausting struggle masquerading as a dinner without nearly enough wine, did not delight Farm Boy one bit. Tossing his spoon to the side, he stuck his finger into the gooey pudding/sauce and scooped it out to suck it off with the relish of a kid working a Jello pudding cup. You are not keeping Farm Boy away from dessert, even shitty Jello pudding dessert.

So fuck you. We don't follow rules either.

The only saving grace about the meal was that the other two couples at our table were fascinating and I enjoyed probing them with questions about their lives. Meeting strangers is one of my favorite things because I find I really like just about everyone for about the first two hours; after that it gets dicey. Farm Boy knows this and thanked me as we walked to our car for not bringing up politics. One of the gentlemen had come from Boston, gone to Harvard, even had a grandfather who had been a professor there. This, among other things, stamped him a crazy ass liberal. 

And I said nary a word. Butter wouldn't have melted in my mouth. If there had been any. An entire meal...and not a pat of butter.

Don't get me started.....

So here is a recipe that will make you gasp in delight. Promise.

GRILLED VEAL CHOPS WITH LEMON-CAPER SAUCE


2 servings

Ingredients

  • 4 T. extra-virgin olive oil
  • 1 1/2 T. white balsamic vinegar
  • 1 1/2 T. drained capers
  • 1 1/2 T. chopped fresh Italian parsley
  • 1 1/4 tsp. finely grated lemon peel
  • Juice from one lemon, add according to your taste
  • 1 garlic clove, minced

  • 2 8 to 9 oz veal rib chops
  • Salt and pepper

Instructions

Whisk 3 tablespoons olive oil with next six ingredients. Season sauce to taste with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Prepare barbeque grill. Brush veal chops with remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Grill to desired doneness. Medium rare is best.

Serve with sauce.

This is divine accompanied by small, roasted potatoes, cut in half and tossed with some oil, butter, fresh thyme, and garlic. Start these ahead as they take about 30 minutes in a 450 degree oven. Sauteed green beans or wilted kale would be lovely as a vegetable.

Accompany with a glorious pink champagne.





Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Monday, February 9, 2015

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Brian Williams defended by Dan Rather and Geraldo Rivera. Does it get any better?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Sometimes life is so perfectly flawless that you just have to sit back and shake your head at the sheer wonder of it. God really is in charge.

Brian "Mad Max" Williams is now being defended by Dan "Fake But Accurate" Rather, and Geraldo "Even Bette Midler Says You Suck" Rivera.

I am SCREAMING with laughter. This is the funniest line-up one could imagine.

Steve Stockman, the congressman from Texas who could easily be a comedy writer if he decides to ditch the swamps of Washington, wrote:

Dan Rather has a memo that completely validates Brian Williams' story.

I have only one thing left to say to Mr. Williams, NBC in particular, and the entire MSM in general:
And just because I'm not that nice...here's a little something to leave you gagging...

Geraldo's Twitter selfie.
Now run and get some eye bleach.

I'm sorry.