I’d Rather Eat The Box

(Sexual Innuendo Of Current Title Noted)

How does one person define what is important to them? Perhaps there is nothing that defines that. Maybe, just maybe, it’s something that happens naturally in our minds. Our brains, being the super computers that they are, bring in the information, file it accordingly, and spring it back out in different ways. One of those ways is to find something that holds a deeper meaning to the individual. My mind has put forth many things that are important to me on a deeper level. My protest against people wearing socks with sandals, for example. However, tonight I would like to write about something very important to me:

The fight to keep you, my friends, from eating Mexican tv dinners.

I had one not too long ago, that made me re-evaluate my existance on this planet. Question my very being. It also made me shit liquid like a levee broke in my colon. But that’s not the point.

I’ve since forgotten the name, however I am more than certain this applies to all Mexican TV Dinners. I don’t know what the OPPOSITE of an endorsement is, but I’ll give it that. To be blunt about it, you’d be better off eating an entire bowl of AIDs infested syringes. And I mean a BIG bowl.

You can tell when things are about to go afoul with your food when you can’t even finish reading the cooking instructions without having a mild aneurism. Allow me to walk you through this, word for word. By the end of it, I assure you that you will be contemplating genocide of the entire Mexican culture JUST to get rid of these tv dinners.

Here we go, starting from the top:

“Cooking Instructions: For Quality & Safety – Please follow the cooking instructions.”

Excuse me. Quality & SAFETY!

Safety? Really. If I don’t vent the beans properly I’ll cause a catastrophic implosion that’ll leave this chunk of the Earth uninhabitable for centuries to come? It’s a fuckin’ TV Dinner, folks, not nuclear fission materials. I’m almost positive the only safety question I have to ask while preparing this meal is: Is it really a good idea to consume this much horror in one sitting?

It tells me to follow these instructions. Well, that’d be just dandy if there weren’t like… 37 fucking steps! I thought for a second I grabbed the wrong box. “Is that a picture of a burrito or a model rocket?” To be honest, it’d have probably been more satisfying to eat a model rocket. Or a real rocket. Fuel included.

Microwave Oven:
1)”Microwave on high for 3 Minutes with plastic film in place”

DONE! What now, bitches!

2)”Lift Film over beans and rice only and stir. Replace film.”

Alright, now we’ve hit a speed bump. Lift plastic and stir… WHAT exactly? The cup in this tray is so small I can’t even fit a fucking SPOON in it, let alone twirl the fucker around and move the four and a half grains of rice in there. I’m digging through the cupboards looking for a swizel stick or coffee stir stick to get in there. “Gee, I hope this is enough. Wouldn’t want any of my THREE BEANS to be cold on one side!”

3)”Rotate 1/4 turn and microwave 3 to 4 minutes more.”

Now they’re just fucking with me. 1/4 Turn? You’ve really got it down to one fine-ass specific science, you lunatics! Does that really make that big of a difference considering it’s inside a tiny box full of RADIATION!?!

Interestingly enough, in the 19th century, microwaves already had the power to TURN THEMSELVES. Imagine that, no need for manual labor to be involved. This isn’t Mexico, Mexican TV Dinner People. Hell, it’s not even Mexican FOOD! Hell, it’s not even FOOD. It may not even actually exist. I may be holding something in my hands that is not even there. A physical anomaly.

I’m not one to go against what food packaging tells me to do, so I busted out my protractor and made damn sure I nailed a 1/4 turn to the decimal point. Carried the three and everything. I have no idea where the three came from, but you can bet your testies (or ovaries) that I carried that son of a bitch!

4)”Allow to stand 2 minutes before carefully removing the film and serving”

I have to be CAREFUL while removing the film, or else the trapped souls will escape. And for those of you who don’t know, the souls give it flavor.

And wait a minute here, did they just use the word: SERVING?! What-a what?! Serving, mother fucker?! Tell me that does NOT say serving. Shit, it does! Look, I’m eating a TV dinner because I don’t have any friends. Or family. Or people who even acknowledge I’m alive. What, do they really expect you to feed this to company?! Look, if I’m at your house, and you come trudging out of the kitchen with one of these singing “Dinner is seeeerrrrveeed!” Guess what? I’m leaving. And you’re not my friend anymore. In fact, I hope you get eyeball cancer. Really, really awful eyeball cancer. I’m sure as hell not gonna stick around to see what’s for dessert tonight. Perhaps a Twinkie with Kool-Whip on top? This, for those of you playing along at home, is called “White Trash Wedding Cake”.

Now we’re finally done. Or so I thought. There is a little post-script to the microwave instructions. Oh goody!

“Microwave ovens vary. Cooking times may require adjustments”

Adjustments? Oh shit. Now I have to re-calculate my fucking TV DINNER?! Am I supposed to buy 24 of these things for trial and error with my microwave? “Hmm… 3 Minutes wasn’t QUITE enough… 3:17, no no… that made it turn into charcoal, I know… 3:13… PERFECT! Now I can enjoy my misery as it was intended!”

It’s over now, right?

WRONG!

We got ourselves the Conventional Oven section to cover!

Conventional Oven: (Not an unconventional one. Just in case you’re making your tv dinner in a pot-bellied stove unit)

1) “ DO NOT remove plastic cover”

GOT THAT! Bold letters means this shit is important, asshole. DO NOT under any fucking circumstances open up that plastic cover! You’ll let ALL the Goblins out. And those pieces of shit will break your dishes and rape your cat. Not once, but twice!

2)”Preheat Oven to 325 degrees”

We want to make sure all three square inches (I measured, fuckers, I MEASURED!) of this meal are well done. Heaven forbid your burrito(?) ends up chilly inside. That’d make it unbearable to eat. Or should I say unbearable…er.

3)”Bake on cookie sheet 30-35 minutes”

Two things. One: I am NOT going to demean my cookie sheet by making it do such a terrible task. Me and my cookie sheet have an understanding. It doesn’t burn the bottoms of my delicious cookies, and I do not use it for acts of self-terrorism. That and I won’t ever use it to take out my nemisis in a backyard wrestling event. Needless to say, these are unspoken bonds. ’cause I’d look like a major whacko-stick if I was actually attempting a verbal contract with my cookware.

Where were we? Oh yes, the reasons…

Here is Two: 30 to 35 MINUTES! For four bites of food(?)!!! Is this some kind of sick joke?! Surely there can’t be people doing this. Listen folks, if you have that much time on your hands… might I suggest a hobby? Killing infants, perhaps? Something less horrifying than wasting half an hour making a tv dinner. I really have no true beef (interestingly enough, the beef burrito didn’t have any true beef either…) with cooking it in an oven. Well, except for the fact, and I’m going to say this with as much grace and tact as I have left in me:

IT’S A MOTHER FUCKING TV DINNER YOU PSYCHOPATH!!!

Alright, forget what I said about grace and tact. But that had to be said.

For those of you who are wondering: yes, this is a real product. I even have the instructions cut out and saved, just in case I need to provide evidance in a lawsuit sometime down the road.

Bob’s Stomach Lining v. Mexican TV Dinner People

My testimony in this case?

“This thing was yucky. I’d even go so far as to say it was “icky”. I’m pretty sure my tongue is no longer on speaking terms with me. Your honor, this TV Dinner molested me. And it’s Goblins raped my cat…”

Case CLOSED.

Fly Shoe? Don’t bother me! (aka Can I use the laces to hang myself?)

Every day, closer to death. That’s the way life goes. However, things are being expedited on my end. Mother Universe, in all her bitchy glory, has decided to plant things on this planet to make things go that much quicker. Things that appear in my eyeballholes, head towards my brain-unit, and eat away at my well-being from the inside out.

Today, we shall discuss high-heeled sneakers.

Deny it all you like. Your left brain can phone up the ol’ right brain and try to convince it that such a thing is not possible. You can ask every fashion expert on the planet to prove me wrong. But they exist.

This is why I’m convinced their is no God:

I will personally send you some Handi-wipes to clean up the vomit on your keyboard. However, the Handi-Wipes will not help cleanse your soul. Sorry. You can blame that one on me.

I witnessed these on another human beings feet. I’ll repeat that. Not only do these exist, but I saw them on the feet of another biped. Makes you tear up a little, doesn’t it?

Alright, let’s take a step back in time and apply my theory of everything to this. My theory of everything is as follows: If it exists, it was someone’s invention. Makes sense. Everything from lawn darts to Aaron Eckhart’s absurdly perfect hair were created by someone, somewhere. This theory also applies to the high-heeled sneaker-shoe.

Follow me now, if you will, on a journey from idea to creation. Counting along the way ALL the people that were fucking demented enough to think that these were a good idea. We shall start with The Creator. The Creator, a fashion designer or manic depressive sociopath who escape an institution, came up with this idea. Perhaps in a dream? “I had a dream last night, I got invited to a Formal Relay Race, and had no good footwear! It was horrible!” They scribbled it down, and took a step back. And thought, “Yes, that there is a masterpiece.”

And indeed they are, just LOOK at that beauty:

Someone please kill me…

Now, the next step. Presenting these to a shoe company. To the man in charge, The Don of Shoes, if you will. And guess what? He looked at them, and despite the fact he has a brain in his head somewhere, said: “Hell yeah, motha FUCKA!”*

*Apparently, he isn’t very professional…

Now, The Don took The Creator’s idea, and presented it to his manufacturing company. The head of manufacturing, The Builder, looked at this cataclysmic idea, and said that not only could it be done, but it will be done. What The Builder should have done was walked down to the floor of the plant, tossed himself onto the giant machine that puts the stitches into the shoes, and let himself be torn into a bloody pile of flesh. This would have been far more pleasant, I’m sure, than having to deal with the task of making high-heeled boot-sneaker shoes.

But this is not what happened. Instead, The Builder took this to his workers, The Grunts, and told them to get on it immediately. Fuck the pretty dance shoe and the stylish pump, we need to get to work on this useless project IMMEDATELY. TOP PRIORITY!

The Grunts, you see, are divided into two distinct groups. The sneaker people, and the high-heeled boot people. These two groups do not play well together. However, in a beautiful showing of love and unity, they have come together. These wonderful shoes of epic disaster have brought together once-enemies! It’s a beautiful thing. Almost makes me want to cry. Or slit my wrists, I haven’t decided.

Now it’s time to order the supplies. The Grunts put in the order to The Suppliers. We would like boot-heels. And sneaker materials.

“In the same order?” Asked The Suppliers, knowing that such a combination is asinine.

“Yes sir! You see, we are combining the two, into a Hybrid Shoe. Something which has never been seen before!”

The Supplier should have responded “You have not seen it, for a reason. You see, a boot and a sneaker together is A SHITTY SHITTY DUMB DUMB IDEA FUCKFACE!”

But instead, The Supplier boxed the stuff up, and sent it out with a smile on his face. You see, The Supplier loves to see a dream come to fruition. Even one as horrifying as this one. The Supplier, needless to say, is a terrible masochist. The likes of which you’ve never seen.

He even sent pink materials! That’s right…

THEY COME IN BRIGHT PINK!!! Oh Joy!!!

Alright, shoe built. Time to get this on the shelves, since SO many people have been waiting their entire lives for this moment! It’s like the release of the final Harry Potter book! Alright, maybe it wasn’t THAT awful… but close!

Let’s including The Store Manager in the list of people who saw this as a good idea. They saw them and said, “Of course! This is what has been missing from my business all this time! This is going to make me rich beyond belief. I, merchant of Death, shall sell these to unsuspecting, slightly-mentally handicapped people, and I shall make a fortune off their not knowing any better. Kinda like Steve Jobs does!” He then told The Stock Boy to put them out on the shelves. And The Stock Boy, against everyone on the Earth’s better judgement, complied. Making poor, minimum-waged paid Stock Boy just as liable as everyone else.

But, how do we let the general public know?! Well, we advertise of course. We get the word out. The Advertisers are involved now too. The Photographer who takes wondrous glamour shots of the beautiful shoes.

Glamour shots like THIS ONE:

Alright, now to the last piece of this puzzle of terror: The Consumer. You and me. Supposedly intelligent humans, walking on this planet, using our hard-earned money on things we need. Things that will make our lives more enjoyable. Like hideous footwear, and things to stab into out faces to end the pain.

Let’s do a quick tally.

The Creator
The Don of Shoes
The Builder
The Grunts
The Supplier
The Store Manager
The Stock Boy
The Advertiser
The Photographer
The Consumer

Look at all those people. ALL those people, plus many that I didn’t represent here, thought that THIS was a good idea.

Guess they couldn’t create a Half-Shoe, Half-Pile of Feces, so they settled for this!

Alright. Let me just sum this up quickly. You know, before my sanity is completely destroyed and I go ape-crackers on everyone around me, tearing off people’s flesh and kicking them hard in and around the shin area. This is my summary:

Whoever did this to our society, deserves to pay. Just because you HAVE an idea, does NOT mean it was a GOOD idea. In fact, it probably wasn’t. Most ideas aren’t good ones. In fact, very, VERY few ideas ARE good ones. Very few. Oh so few.

And this one wasn’t even close.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to work on my latest idea. It’s a Hybrid Hat that combines all the respectability of the Top Hat, with the childhood fun of a lil’ spinner beanie hat! I call it the… Top… Spinner Beanie Hat! It’s going to be amazing when you want to go to a grand ball and still have a little bit of fun. Either I’ll work on that, or drink a gallon of lead paint and leave this mortal realm. Haven’t decided yet. Leaning towards the latter.

Where’s The Beef?!

Chinese food. I mean, just for having a dish called the “Poo-Poo platter” it deserves mad props. Universally loved food. All Asian cultures are really.

Mexican food? Who doesn’t love a taco?

Italian food? Pasta. Pizza. Yeah, pretty much an all around win there.

How about American food? America calls itself the greatest country in the world, but what is it’s contribution to the world food buffet? Deep friend chicken? Little Debbie’s snack cakes? Squirrel meat soup? The most likely thing to be given to this country as a National Food, would have to be the hamburger.

However, I believe I’m going to have to express some concern with this. It’s great to have a food that we as a culture enjoy. But Americans, much like with EVERYTHING they do, have taken it too fucking far!

Why the hell do we always have to find crazy new toppings to stick onto a burger? We just aren’t content enough with that mound of shit-beef, are we? It’s just not good enough with ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions, relish, cheese, seasonings of all kinds. That’s just a regular BURGER in this country. That’s a years harvest in other countries. We suck!

No, we weren’t content with the fat-fuck burger. We had to go farther. And why not? A hamburger is flat on top (unless you really suck at making them), and why have surface area if you’re not going to cover it with something that shouldn’t be there?

That’s what we do with every food item. It just isn’t enough for our lard-asses to just eat the food. Instead, we have to pile OTHER food on top of the food, and then press it between MORE food, with various liquefied forms of food drizzled all over the top like a money-shot gone bad (or good?).

Bacon? That’s right. Bacon. Pork. We actually put PORK on top of BEEF. That’s PIG on top of COW. I’ll allow a moment for the image of a pig standing on a cow to sink out of your head. All done? Alright, good.

We have burger restaurants. They specialize in various burgers with various things crammed on top. Guacamole? That does not belong on top of a burger. AT ALL. No exceptions. Not even in England is that kind of a horrible cooking decision alright! And then we try give credit to a random country. They call it the Mexican Ocho Burger. I don’t know what the number eight has to do with it, but it sounds cool, so it’s fuckin’ THERE!

This is why we’re fat, unhealthy, and generally in a shit mood most of the time. The stuff we cram in our face-craters is usually obscene and unedible. But we eat it anyway! Heart disease? Sounds like a topping at this point!

The issue with our burger obsession is, it only lasts for one meal. Dinner. Maybe lunch if you’re really, really fucking stupid. But we need to find ways to slip the burger into other meals. Slap a beef patty between two donuts? Breakfast burger! How about putting an Ice Cream sandwhich on top? Dessert Burger! Yeah, we’re cookin’ on all cylinders now, kiddies. Hell, why not just dig through the fridge and slap some leftovers on top. Midnight snack burger? Why not? A Hamburger with some 2-week old Seasame Chicken on top, and some of what we BELIEVE was that cassarole from last March. Tuna, perhaps? Probably not anymore, but it was ONCE tuna something or other. Just load it up on that bad boy, and make sure you use enough force to get it into your mouth. Wouldn’t want any space inside of your skull oriface to go un-stuffed.

We are getting carried away. I deceided to do some research into this, and found some of the more bizarre hamburger toppings that have surfaced on this planet. For your enjoyment, and to further push myself into the grave from the anger-tumor growing inside me.

Here we go:

~Egg (Breakfast burger, take two!)

~Kung Pao Shrimp Burger (I think the Seasame Chicken sounds better…)

~Mango chutney (Because most of us LOVE us some chutney!)

~Dried cranberries (Not wet ones. NOT FUCKING WET ONES! Because that’s gross!)

~Horseradish cheddar, hard boiled eggs and roasted corn & black bean salsa with some black forest ham and a soupcon or two of roasted garlic aioli. (That’s ONE BURGER to this nutcase. Is there even room for the BEEF after all that?! And Black Forest Ham? You want to actually put BEEF on top of BEEF?!?!)

~2 Italian sausages with hot chili sauce and cheese (Again with putting meat on top of meat. Why even bother processing the dead cow. Just rub a animal carcus in butter and start nibbling!)

~PBJ Burger (Does that sound appealing to ANYONE?!?! ANYONE AT ALL!?!?)

~Cottage cheese and peaches…

I can’t do it anymore. I’m going to kill myself right now. I can’t handle knowing these things are out there. That people actually do this to themselves. I’m done. Game over, man, GAME OVER!

I’m actually near-vomiting right now. So I’m going to have to stop this with my summary point. And I do have one:

PUT THE BURGER DOWN AND EAT A FUCKING SALAD, SHITHEAD! And I swear to the Gods below, if you put a fucking hamburger on that salad I’ll stab you in the kidney…

Killing Two American Eagles With One Stone

America has a lot of problems. One of which is that we are having trouble solving those problems. And when we do, it’s usually only one problem at a time. It’s time we multi-task people. And I think I’m just the guy for the job. That’s right, folks, today I’m offering my first idea towards solving two of America’s problems at once: Obesity and Gas Prices.

No doubt about it, we’re a nation of fat asses. This is, in part, because of our overuse of automobiles. We do things like drive to our next door neighbors house, slap motors on our bikes and boats, and catch a bus from the bedroom to the bathroom down the hall. This won’t go away any time soon, so we might as well embrace it. And use it as a solution. With rising gas prices, some even higher than Paula Abdul on her day off, killing us at the pumps, the cry for a new fuel has never been louder. So I, being the helpful human being that I am, have a solution. I’m taking the very thing making us fat, and using it to make us thin. That’s right, I’m talking about liposuction fat powered cars. Your ass fat is now my unleaded. Our bodies burn fat for power, so why not our H3’s? Hell, the liposuction clinics in Beverly Hills alone could provide us with enough fuel to shut up all those annoying anti-Gas hippy Liberals once and for all.

Let’s take it a step further, even. How about planes? If we drained just Rosie O’Donnell we could run a 747 to Europe.

There is a lot of fuel needs, and only so many fatsos to provide our Ass-oline. So let’s find another source – Dead fatties. Let’s suck Uncle Big Mac’s thighs dry before putting his pizza sauce blooded ass into the ground. Shit, imagine how many miles we could have gone for free after Marlon Brando croaked.

Now, the trouble is inventing a fat-powered engine. Can it really be that hard? It’s time we pooled our resources and got something done. For just one year, we’re taking every rocket scientist at NASA and moving them over to our little project. This won’t be a problem, because everyone needs to take a break from crashing multi-billion dollar rockets in the name of science once and awhile.

Once we burn some blubber to burn some rubber, we’ll need to start up places to get this fuel. Fat-Stations. Maybe we can even construct pumps that take the fat straight out of our bodies and pump it right into our vehicles. Finally, a better reason to date a fat chick! And when you’re inside paying for your fuel, you can even stock up on candy and chips and claim it as being “Fuel Efficient .” Stimulates the economy. Solving yet another of our nations problems! I’m a genius!

Well, there you have it my big boned friends. A way to avoid jogging and still lose those unsightly love handles. Now, when you’re walking down the streets, people will no longer yell “Look at that fat ass!” but “Look at that potential cross-country road trip!”.

If you’ll excuse me, I need to head to the kitchen to make a snack. Better call a cab…

Kidding Around

Don’t you think it’s time to stop this “having children’ shit for awhile? Seriously, people, enough is enough. We don’t need all these little versions of you running around everywhere, getting chocolate and boogers on everything.

Not to mention that too many of the wrong people are having kids. I know abortion is a touchy subject, but don’t you think it’s about time Shaniqua, the 14 year old Elementary School dropout, who’s about to crap out her seventh fatherless little monster, ought to take an “accidental” trip down 38 flights of stairs? All I’m saying is, perhaps next time you see one of those crack-addicted, herpes-infested whores walking around with a heroin-injected bun in the oven, you maybe give her a swift Jackie Chan kick to the Uterus?

I get it, I’m a jerk. I’ve gone too far. But it’s true! We need to stop producing kids. Basic supply and demand. The demand has been met, the supply is over-stocked. So, maybe we ought to shut down the assembly lines for a year or three?

Kids are like any resource. When there is too much, it loses its value. And it fucks up our schools! Ever wondered why class sizes are shit? It has nothing to do with the Government screwing up funding. It’s your fault! Who’s kids do you think are clogging up our schools worse than Dick Chaney’s arteries? Yours, fuckers! So stop dumping them out!

If you really need a child that badly, we have plenty in the warehouses we call orphanages… and Africa. Hell, Madonna just swung by the local Child-Mart last night and picked up a few loose babies. Angelina Jolie is up to her 13th baby, and that’s just this weeks haul.

Really, I wouldn’t mind if we just went without kids all together for a little while. “But Bob, kids are cute!”. Yeah? So are Disney films about talking dogs playing darts, but after the 300th in a week, it starts to get a little annoying.

Think of all the places in the world that would be improved with less kids running around. Supermarkets. Restaurants. Airplanes. Not to mention the fact that I could finally use the little horsey ride outside of Wal-Mart without waiting in line!

Perhaps I just revealed a bit of information about me that you didn’t need to know, but you get the point.

And can we stop with the Octuplets shit already? If you can’t have a baby, there is no need to inject yourself with drugs that will have you firing them out faster than a gun in a Rambo movie.

They say today’s youth, tomorrows leaders. Well, we don’t need that many fucking leaders tomorrow!

I would continue this rant, but I can’t hear my own thoughts over the twenty seven kids that live next door! Might as well do something productive. Like go get a few girls pregnant, and fuck up society a little bit more!