Overthunk

When creation'd barely got its legs Applesauce with nuts and eggs.

You scored as The Hazel . In Celtic astrology, you're a Hazel. The animal symbol that accompanies this tree is the salmon. The ancient Druids say Hazel people are creative, artistic, expressive, imaginative and perceptive. They often make good teachers. However, Hazels may be prone to being overly analytical, morose or preoccupied in their own thoughts. The Hazel 80% The Rowan 80% The Hawthorn 60% The Birch 60% The Ash 60% The Elder 60% The Oak 60% The Ivy 60% The Reed 60% The Vine 60% The Alder 50% The Holly 50% The Willow 30% What Tree Are You? (Celtic astrology) created with QuizFarm.com

Section 59.287 Materials used in burrito construction must be sufficient to contain bean, meat and cheese loads up to 1.78 lbs. as determined by the Texas Department of Burrito Filling Weights and Measures. Section 59.288 Burrito construction teams (at Taco Bell, Taco Bueno, or the like) must remain mindful of the high probability that end user of said burrito will likely be snarfing said foodstuff down at speeds of 45 mph or greater. Section 59.289 Pursuant to Section 59.288, burritos, in addition to being constructed of tortilla (or shingling) outer covering of at least .0599 inch thickness, should also be centered in a paper holding device of sufficient thickness to contain spills of superheated filling goo, should said outer covering fail. At no time should the tortilla (or shingling) outer covering rupture, pooping said goo in smelly driblets upon the user's shirt like hot, steaming, chili-flavored scat from a burrito bird.* Section 59.290 Pursuant to Sections 59.287, 59.288 ...

Driving today (why do SO many posts start like that? I DRIVE TOO MUCH!), I saw this brilliant solution to all our Middle East problemos, articulated in seconds by a piece of sticky vinyl affixed to the back window of a pickup. I couldn't get a crappy cellphone picture in time, so I had to use my mad Paintskillz to recreate this piece of Americana for y'all. Somewhat guiltily, I have to admit it had a certain lizard-brain , barbaric charm on some hickass level. I like to think that my cerebellum rapped the medulla oblongata (or wherever such cavewoman sentiments stem from) soundly. In any case, the thought went away. The laughing didn't, though. Can you imagine the pacifist violence that would erupt in response to this if you were driving this truck in California or somewhere? A rock through the windshield or a lead pipe beating would be prescribed to drum up the lost compassion in your sick, Southern, Bush-loving heart. Besides, it's not gas yet. It's just sweet, sw...

I wink you or you wink me we trade some stupid pleasantry we choose some place at which to dine sip bucking stars or glug some wine then at this dump we laugh and smile words flit and jump fling pearls to swine and swiftly then like some black hex you disappoint i holler, "Next!"

Swelled cans... it's more than just the highly anticipated effect of a bust enhancement cream.* It could be a life-threatening bacterial invasion of your earthly flesh. It could be... BOTULISM!! Why am I providing this public service messsage? You see, kids, in high school, I was in Honors Biology. I had a teacher (possibly even a lesbian now that I think back on her button down men's oxford shirts, utter lack of makeup or a purse, cords, and short 'n fringy haircut even in the Big Dallas Hair era of the '80s). She went by the name of Ms. McFarland (names have been changed to protect the scientific). She had one class rule: respect. So anyway, she taught us that we should always be on the lookout for swelled or dented cans, because they could be harboring seething hordes of BOTulism!!! We needed to worry about this because botulism causes a horrible death, you see, paralyzing bits of you until you die of death. A fatal dose of this powerful nerve toxin is ONE MICROGRAM,...

While it was never my original intent to turn this blog into an Antiques Roadshow competitor, that is the turn it has been taking of late. If you're not into old things, you might want to flip channels. If you are, stay tuned for a tale of lost relics, vulgarity and passion. This, blogpals, is my first typewriter. Now, I know: "WHa?!?!" you're shouting to the screen before you as you sputter forth flavorful capuccino and/or mouth-swished gatorade. Yet, no, I'm not much older than you thought. This ancient machine of uncertain age and lineage was purchased for me by my grandmother when I was but a young, nerdy writer whelp of 12 or 14. Though it languished in my mom's hall closet for many years, unreachable due to crap piled 10 feet high in there, recently we took stuff out of the closet and so it has returned. It is still functional but for the lack of a ribbon -- it can type in black AND red, given the proper ribbon. To make the letters, a metal arm jumps fo...

Recently, due to Arctic Blast 2007 (i.e. a quarter-inch of sleet upon these Dallas roadways), a much-anticipated night of drinking, fooling around and Sopranos was nixed. Did I sulk? Well, hell yes, I did. And then I did some more. But after that, pouting began to bore me and I hit upon a mission: I was gonna make a goddamn sock monkey. Why the flip did this occur to me? Well, I'd talked it up for many years, seeing as how my grandmother gave me one when I was six or seven and it was subsequently so cherished and frequently hugged that the tail developed a hole at the end. As it turns out, my friends listen to me on occasion, so I was gifted with this kit at Christmastime this year. Though my original hosiery simian was far more tricked out than this one, with a red gingham dress and hat that had lace trim, this nostalgia-fueled, red felt vested ape would do nicely on a blustery, pissy winter's night . Besides, the original mon-chi-chi was lost. Generally speaking, I'm n...

Yeah, I'm closer to 40 than 14, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend to be in that band I always wanted to be in. And no, I can't play the guitar for real, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the tar out of this game. In fact, that's the whole POINT. The second version of this Playstation 2 diversion, called Guitar Hero as you can see here, just came out, but I'm too busy woodshedding on a borrowed version of the first one to care about that yet. At first, I sucked so thoroughly the game kicked me out of the song and the crowd booed. Yet now, I can successfully hit 80-96% of the notes on average of tunes ranging from Boston's "More Than A Feeling" to Audioslave's "Cochise." The cool thing is, songs you don't even like much and dismiss as crap, you get new respect for when you try to play them. You also learn how Nikki Sixx must have felt when his fingers and forearms ached from the amount of rockin' he was doing, but...

Seasons greetings, blogpadres! It's hard to believe it's been a year since my last post about cooking , but certainly it has. This year, instead of Candied Nuts, I decided to make Rum Balls. Though there may be some hidden symbolism in my two-years running choices of recipes that could be euphemisms for cajones , I choose to believe differently. That yellowed paper next to the plate is the recipe of old, typed on the ancient, black, 50-pound manual typewriter I was given by my grandmother as a kid. (Yes, even 25 years ago I was a writing, typing dork.) The recipe came from one of the neighbors on our street, who still lives there. And yes, my mom did make these and allow us to eat them as children. Who knows what current freakitudes (such as a simultaneous love of chocolate AND rum!) I can blame on this underage intake of hard liquor in candy form. This year, instead of rockin', I watched a DVD I found of the 1982 Leslie Nielsen series Police Squad , instead of egg nog, I w...

When I was a youngster, toiling away at what used to be Southwestern Bell Mobile Systems (now Cingular Wireless), I swore off office politics. I reported to work, fended off oldsters who hit on me and my "sexy voice" daily, pretended to sell extra features, took much too long constructing a faux jellyfish from a styrofoam plate and bits of plastic for a team decorating contest, just generally toiled there in my cubicle from morning 'til night, fixing glorified walkie talkies. Then (usually a few minutes early), I went home. As a result, I never got the attention (nor the raises) of my superiors. Then I got ten years older. The world and its ways slowly and painfully revealed themselves to me. I realized, that in all kinds of realms, you have to do as Freddie Mercury suggests, and "Play the game, play the game, play the game, play the game!" With a single email that could have been utter bullstuff (it wasn't, but the point is, verification of my lofty claims ...

(English Title: Meat My Blade) On the potentially dismal occasion of my 36th trip round the sun, I visited a Brazilian churrascaria. If you haven't been to one, it's a magical place where you first take a stellar trip around the salad bar, which is really a buffalo mozzarella/kalamata olives/proscuitto/steamed asparagus/marinated mushrooms and more bar, then are whisked back to your table to delight in what you found there for a few moments while sucking down caipirinhas (a.k.a. Brazilian margaritas). Next, enter the intricate communication system in place akin to the sign language used by Drasnian spies , in the form of a circular card, one for each person at the table. One side of the card is red, the other, green. Flip that red card to green and wait. Within seconds, a fleet of smartly dressed, hot, Latin gauchos descends upon you, each bearing a rod of steaming, delicious meat for your consumption. Each meets your eyes as you communicate your most intimate carnal desires: O...

Today between the schooling and the getting schooled, I went looking for vittles to Jack in the Box, in search of the elusive Jumbo Jack with cheese, plain, and two tacos. I'd gone to this particular one before, but I'd forgotten before that I'd sworn to myself that next time, I should go to the OTHER one a couple blocks before the one I've gotten used to going to. Why? you ask. Well, there's one of those homo sapiens oblivians working there. You know the type. The guy who, despite being of low socioeconomic status and considerably less than dreamy looks, flirts with anyone, anywhere, any time. The guy who leans out the drive-thru to impart his philosophies on life and love with you, even though you're just a passing blur framed by a car window. "You didn't KNOW you could substitute mozzarella sticks for fries?!" he cried to me, incredulous. "See that? You learn something new all the time! I can't believe you didn't know that!" ...

I see a pink blog and I want it painted green. And in so doing, I FLUSHED AWAY MY BLOGROLL. DAMMIT and CRAPADOO! I'm sorry, blogpals. I shall repair the damage as soon as I am able. Know that, until then, your comments and your words and the time you burned here live on in my grateful heart.

it has been so long oh, how I wanted to come up to your place for some "coffee" but I knew that if I did being a slave to sensuality and my appetites and nothing like self-controlled i would just sit on the couch lean in ask you to kiss that certain place then 20 minutes later be doing the deed your hands touching me all over you know THE deed and the only thing that saves me from such a fate is having a rule so I have a rule no hoeing on the first date not with a long-handled garden tool nor with any other appendages because I think it's fair to make you work just a little harder for your journey to the center of the earth for your rendezvous with the fertile garden of femininity for your returning back to where it's safe and warm

It's also THOR'S DAY!!! So eat up, drink up, and battle valiantly on the way to Valhalla. I was going to insert a nifty Thanksgiving card here for you all, but Blogger is being a jive turkey. So you just have to imagine a lovely card with pumpkins and a cornucopia and stuff on it, that reads: Happy Thanksgiving -- May you always have much for which to be thankful! And underneath that in my Trebuchet hand, I've writ, "If you're reading this, I'm thankful for you!" And thus it is true, though it is only a vision in thy head. So shall it be written, so shall it be done. Happy T-Day to thee and thine, pilgrims!

While making some Thanksgiving fudge (yeah, I know, the Pilgrims didn't have fudge at the first Thanksgiving, but damn you people and your rules), it occurred to me that I do quite a few stupid things to amuse myself. Now, from the past and present, some of these stupid ways ::drumroll:: 1. Dictate to myself the ingredients and processes of making fudge as I am doing them, in survival Spanish, with the heaviest of Texas accents: "Ponga los nway-says en la dool-say. Es mas fa-seel!" :) 2. I used to go out into our backyard and pretend to make educational films, just like the jumpy, projector driven films we saw at school, that unspooled from one 12-foot-in- diameter reel to another as the teacher dozed at the back of the room. Of course, any time the film started to jump or skip or make that PRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMPHHTPRRRPHTMTMMTMTTTTPRRRRRRRR sound, the class noisily complained. If the film snapped in twain, the teacher was ready with a piece of Scotch tape. Try doing THAT wit...

Because I attend an exclusive, prestigious, private university for graduate school, I stumble along amongst long shadows stretching along the Serengeti marble halls. Rich, thin, shiny, pretty women meander past me by on their slender, Nordic, giraffean legs, and I am as a squat chimpanzee in their midst -- clever, amusing, far more able to use tools, yet not half as majestic. Sometimes, in classes, we interact. I feel as if I travel in Pigpen's cloud, for my nails are clipped and short, and tiny continents with chipping borders appear on each finger, instead of glossy, manicured, monochromatic squares. My hair, unfashionably frizzy, is self-cut and a few weeks overdue for a $7 color out of a Garnier box. My $12 shoes have about breathed their last, as I shift about the desk in my Wal-Mart pants. Still, maybe opposable thumbs and the ability to throw verbal poo at their mystification at crazy tables-full of statistics is worth being grotty. Sometimes. ----------------- I can't d...

Hey folks. This is a nonspecific teaser trailer. Oh, there ARE posts! OH, there are posts! Oh, THERE are posts! Oh, there are POSTS! I've got a couple in the pipe, but they need polishing before I'll let 'em out. So check back in a few. Weeks. No, days. Not hours. Why? 'Cause my little button nose is so far to the grindstone, it's just a skeleton nose, ground down to a fine sharp point. -------------------------------------------- I'm not the one whos so far away w hen I feel the snakebite enter my veins Never did I wanna be here again a nd I don't remember why I came. --- G. Smack (Hey, do you reckon that song's about HEROIN!?!?!?) Yeah. I'm much too tired.

Catch phrases run the gamut from "kiss my grits" to "can you smell what the rock is cookin?" I like to make my own, though, and of late, my favorite has been "I hate __________." We live in a world that is uncomfortable with hate, and because it is forbidden, I guess, is why it's fun to say. I'm not all about the hatin' exactly. It's just whatever you're not supposed to do is fun to do. Forbidden words hold more power. Also, there's no thinking, just denouncing. You can't hate everything. People are too complicated to hate. If you start to hate one, and then think some more, you'll find something that wasn't so bad. And if you hate someone for being a hatemonger, then you're just as bad as they are, aren't you? So hate has to be more specific, like "I hate floral print shirts." "I hate when good sloths go bad." "I hate vocational training." "I hate Death by Chocolate type desse...