VIDEO: Very Nervous Fat Kid

PROOF POSITIVE that when you search "fat kid" on YouTube, you will always find gold. I know this is old, but so is your mom, and she gets a lot of views, too.

In which the blogger follows up

An update on the MILF hostilities!! This lady is hot.

And we need to get some sex ed in Russia. Pulling out of Georgia will not necessarily prevent her from getting pregnant.

In which the blogger is wondering why he didn't just adopt one of those Chinese girls who couldn't be in the Olympics

Evidently, "She Bangs!" dudes. Just like he does. Now Clay Aiken's little spawn can have two little playmates!

This article should be titled Queen, Please or See? Butt Babies DO Grow When You Shoot Them Up A Vagina!

Ricky Martin a father of twin boys, publicist says
22 hours ago

NEW YORK (AP) — There won't be much "livin' la vida loca" for Ricky Martin these days — he's now the father of twin boys. The Latin superstar had the children via a surrogate mother, and the babies were born a few weeks ago, according to a statement from his representatives.

"The children, delivered via gestational surrogacy, are healthy and already under Ricky's full-time care," said the statement. "Ricky is elated to begin this new chapter in his life as a parent and will be spending the remainder of the year out of the public spotlight in order to spend time with his children."

A representative said there was no further information on the details of the children's birth.

Martin, 36, is a multiplatinum singer who is best known for English-language hits like "She Bangs!" and "Livin' la Vida Loca." In recent years, the Puerto Rican star has been active in charitable efforts, including the prevention of sexual exploitation of children.

In which the blogger used to think his cat was cool, and now just feels terribly disappointed in her

Look! It's not just the people in the suburbs that have strange appearances! Though that popped-collar thing needs to end. This, my friends, is why I feed my cat only organic kibble and Bombay Sapphire gin (it's made with filtered water). She beats me when she's angry, but it's only cause I do bad things.

They say cats have nine lives, but this one has four ears.

A genetic abnormality gave Yoda, of Downers Grove, Ill., four ear flaps instead of two.

Yoda the Cat Astounds With Four Ears

Ted and Valerie Rock first spied the little guy in 2006 at neighborhood bar on the South Side of Chicago before a Bears game. He was the last of a litter of eight put up for adoption by the bar's owner.

"The people in the bar, because it was coming up on Halloween, were thinking it was a devil cat or had evil powers or something," Ted Rock told FOXNews.com.

But the Rocks, who had lost their cat of 20 years just 6 months prior, saw something special in the gray kitten and decided to take him home.

Their "Star Wars"-loving son thought to name the cat after the tiny Jedi master.

"I had named him Barfly," Rock said. "But we kind of liked Yoda better, and Barfly lasted only about a day."

The abnormality can cause hearing impairments, though Rock said several veterinarians have given Yoda a clean bill of health.

In which the blogger wonders why hot women in the Phillipines are so mad about being hot

"Good morning, General. Today, MILF were sighted in south Philippines. Reports coming from the AFP state that there's a village of MILF; an army even. There is no indication that they are on the move, but we're sure the MILF are probing the area for hard targets."

In which the blogger makes a quick post of the news before he orders holy water and silver bullets

This baby is evil. His conception, his father, the auspicious date and time of his birth, the fact that God let Clay Aiken breed in the first place...

...all signs point to Antichrist.

Clay Aiken is a Father

Tribune wire reports
2:17 PM CDT, August 8, 2008
Former "American Idol" runner-up Clay Aiken is a father.

The 29-year-old crooner from Raleigh announced the birth of Parker Foster Aiken on his Web site's blog Friday. "No hyphens. One first name," he wrote. "One middle name. One last name." Aiken's mother, Faye, told Raleigh TV station WRAL the child was born in North Carolina.

Aiken was a favorite of fans during the second season of "American Idol," where he finished second to Ruben Studdard. His album "Measure of a Man" went double platinum in 2003, and he made his Broadway debut this spring in "Monty Python's Spamalot."

The baby's mother is Jaymes Foster, Aiken's friend and record producer whom he met while performing on "American Idol." Their son was born at 8:08 a.m. Friday, and weighed 6 pounds 2 ounces and was 19 inches long, according to the statement on the Web site.

"The little man is healthy, happy, and as loud as his daddy," Aiken wrote. "Mama Jaymes is doing quite well also."

VIDEO: Devil Sheep

In which the blogger wonders if some, um...shit...is fake

Toilet rained giant hailstones to fill building
An Austrian man is demanding substantial damages after he was blasted off the toilet when hundreds of thousands of hail stones exploded out of it.

Martin Bierbauer said: "I heard the pipes rumbling a bit, and suddenly hailstones the size of golf balls started exploding out of the toilet like it was a popcorn machine.

"There was an avalanche of ice that quickly filled the toilet, then the entire flat, and eventually the entire building."

"I ran down the stairs with the hailstones following me, and other residents did the same."

Another resident, Silvia Streit, said: "I grabbed a board and put it over the toilet, but the pressure was so great, I ended up sitting on the board as the hail flowed through the flat and down the stairs."

Freak weather has led to temperatures of over 35 degrees centigrade in Austria which a few days later plunge to near zero as freak hail storms batter the country.

The incident at the block of flats in Eisenstadt, the capital of the province of Burgenland, was caused by hailstones flooding into a local drain during a torrential downpour, which became blocked.

Local council spokesman Wolfgang Leinner said: "The pressure was too great, the hailstones had to go somewhere and they came out through the toilets it seems."

In which the blogger feels calm, which is a nice feeling he wishes to hold onto

'A harbor, of course, is a place of refuge, a port of entry. I pictured the harbor of my mind – a little beat-up, perhaps, a little storm-worn, but well-situated and with a nice depth. The harbor of my mind is an open bay, the only access to the island of my Self (which is a young and volcanic island, but fertile and promising). This island has been through some wars, it is true, but it is now committed to peace, under a new leader (me) who has instituted new policies to protect the place. And now – let the word go out across the seven seas – there are much, much stricter laws on the books about who may enter this harbor.

You may not come here anymore with your hard and abusive thoughts, with your plague ships of thoughts, with your slave ships of thoughts, with your warships of thoughts – all these will be turned away. Likewise, any thoughts that are filled with angry or starving exiles, with malcontents and pamphleteers, mutineers and violent assassins, desperate prostitutes, pimps and seditious stowaways – you may not come here anymore, either. Cannibalistic thoughts, for obvious reasons, will no longer be received. Even missionaries will be screened carefully, for sincerity. This is a peaceful harbor, the entryway to a fine and proud island that is only now beginning to cultivate tranquility. If you can abide by these new laws, my dear thoughts, then you are welcome in my mind – otherwise, I shall turn you all back toward the sea from whence you came.

That is my mission, and it will never end.'

In which the blogger philosophizes with the shiny, sparkly Countess

Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Using increasingly alcoholic brownies to get what I want isn’t bad, is it?
Felix J. Bedingfield: Mmm…is it working?
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: I think. I seemed to be losing ground, so I way upped the alcohol…suddenly I get midday texts and am told “Best brownies yet!”.
Felix J. Bedingfield: So the ends justify the means.
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: So it would only be bad…if it wasn’t working?
Felix J. Bedingfield: Eh, sometimes you have to get creative. Also, do you really want what it is you think you want?
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Given my attention span, how long do I want anything? But in this case, yeah, I think I really do, for once.
Felix J. Bedingfield: Then go for it! Lure him into your liquor-soaked candy house!!
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Yes, but that would cause a conflict of interests, because I also want to keep him.
Felix J. Bedingfield: Oh, whatever. I’m kicking around the idea of dosing Alan with yohimbe so I can freakin' get some, and I plan on keeping him.
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Okay then. Though, him causing me to almost develop morals is a tad bothersome.
Felix J. Bedingfield: You realize we have a history of justifying questionable behavior for one another…right?
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Yes. That’s why I came to you.

In which the blogger wonders what he's going to wear

Look whose makeup I'm doing for her concert at The Underground tonight...!

Details and photos to follow, you jealous whores.

In which the blogger wishes that chemistry class could really have been this sugary sweet

In which the blogger explores medical phenomena with the illustrious Countess

Felix J. Bedingfield: Do you think my health issues might be caused by my acid blood?
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Acid blood?
Felix J. Bedingfield: Yeah. Everyone knows you can tell a gay by his acid blood.
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Oh, I see. I was hoping it was something useful, like spitting acid.
Felix J. Bedingfield: Kind of. It’s useful for destroying the hearts of stupid boys.
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: Heartburn is in your stomach, so if you would just stop eating the hearts of your enemies, you might feel better.
Felix J. Bedingfield: True, but then how would I absorb their powers?
Countess Bunny Hoppinmad: That is a small problem.

In which the blogger hopes his whiffle ball never, ever goes over that fence

"You damn kids get off my lawn!!"

In which the blogger feels like he should now appreciate life more, but he wonders, "Whose life...?"

My blood is clean. Urine, too. Sugar is a little high, but that’s what I get for drinking pop with breakfast. Chest X-Rays (front, back, side, side) show that contrary to recent popular belief, yes, I DO have a heart. Lungs, too, a liver, and a bunch of other lumpy organs. The EKG even shows that my heart beats, albeit with an irregular pacing. I like to think of it as syncopated, like a Gloria Estefan song. CAT scan shows that though I feel like lately I’ve not been using it, the brain’s still present and accounted for. I asked if they could us that big machine to zap out the parts that make me crazy/bad boyfriend/ADD/anxious. They said no, so I just laid there and got scanned.

Diagnosis? Left arm paresthesias, accompanied by vertigo. Translation: tingly, numb arm with an unknown cause. It might be a pinched nerve stemming from a wild Friday night out (three words: Hula Hoop Contest). Could be a product of my (evidently) high blood pressure, which is (obviously) a product of my high stress level, which is (undoubtedly) a product of my anxiety, which is (primarily) aggravated by my life. It might be degenerative nerve disorder. There’s a chance it’s the same nerve inflammation my mom experiences. My arm could be slowly mutating into a super-extremity, so I’ll soon live my dream of fighting crime with a quirky sense of good and evil.

And it could be a “small aneurism or stroke”.

I was sitting at my desk Saturday, when my vision clouded twice in rapid succession, and someone grabbed the top of my head, jerking it quickly forward, to the right, back, and then tossed it forward. Well, that’s what it felt like. My hot ER doctor told me it was vertigo, and it was pretty common. Not common for me, I thought.

I passed all the cute neuro-tests he put me through.

Hot ER Doctor: Grip my fingers.
Me: But I just met you. *grip*
HERD: Lift your right leg, then your left.
Me: Should we be doing this in the hall?
HERD: Move your tongue both ways
Me: Only if you do the same. There’s not much room to maneuver in there.

Since CAT scans are rarely enough to make a diagnosis, I’m going back for an MRI so the crazy weird Asian CAT scan guy can look for “bleeding, clots, or signs of trauma”. I asked if he meant emotional trauma and its tendency to become lodged in the folds of my ever-expanding consciousness. He said no.

I’m freaked, but I’m dealing. I’m alive, and the same things that piss me off on any other day are still pissing me off today. That’s why I’ve been instructed to find ways to stop letting things piss me off.

And I said they needed to find ways to remove those parts of my brain I mentioned.

In which the blogger wonders what the hell is goin' on in Salt Lake City

Mia Michaels was wrong. Screw dancing.THIS is the Mormon thing: No sex, drugs, drinking. So turning guns on innocent douchebags who screw around in traffic becomes a great outlet."

In any case, this guy is obviously a [expletive] nutjob. Who doesn't [expletive] like dijon [expletive] mustard...?

---------------------------------------

'Grey Poupon' Antic Leads to Pointed Gun
Mimicking a humorous 1990s commercial, three in car get an unexpected response from a fellow driver
The Salt Lake Tribune

A Sandy man took offense to a motorist, who, after getting him to roll down his window, asked, "Excuse me, sir, do you have any Grey Poupon?" After hearing the request for Dijon mustard, the 22-year-old driver pulled a black handgun from his glove compartment, cocked the weapon and pointed it at the three people in the other car.

"Here's your Grey Poupon, roll your [expletive] windows up," he responded.

The confrontation happened June 18 at the intersection of 900 East and Winchester Street (6500 South) in Murray, court documents state.

One of the three people in the car wrote down the sport utility vehicle's license plate number. Murray police later located the man, who admitted he pulled out the gun, racked the slide and threaten the other car.

He was charged Tuesday with aggravated assault, a third-degree felony.

Food Thoughts: Vol. 2, Triple Sec Spiked French Toast with a Mixed Berry Compote

Here's Alan with another meal that was TOTALLY worth it. I've never been a huge French toast person, probably because the mushy mess I was fed as a child doesn't really count as "toast" so much as, well..."mush". Let's leave my mother out of this.

------------------------------------------

The French have had their high and lows in this county. Sure, we all love to mock them for their inability to win a war, berets, and outrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrragious accents… But let’s get real people. These folks know how to cook… And, aside from the fry, one of the greatest American treatments of a French classic (Ok, probably the Roman per Wiki but who’s counting) is toast. Today we’ll specifically be speaking of Triple Sec Spiked French Toast with a Mixed Berry Compote.

Let’s get started with an opening shot of the goodness:


It’s all good. I mean, there are TWO kinds of booze here peeps. How could you not like that?

The first step is to make the berry sauce...or compote if you happen to be snobby. Which I am. So on with the COMPOTE! This is pretty simple really… Just boil together some OJ, rum and sugar.


While that’s heating away, in a small bowl mix together some equal parts corn starch and water. Now, my grandma called this little concoction a slurry…and I seem to recall Alton or Emeril or some other food personality saying it once…so for the purpose of this blog (and possible even in real life), that it’s official name.


Anyway, once the sweet OJ-rum comes to a boil toss in said slurry and give everything a stir. Here’s an important point for the not so chef-y among us. DON’T turn the heat down yet. Cornstarch only works when it’s boiling…so resist! You won’t burn anything! Plus, it’s pretty cool watching it go from boring orange-water to delicious sauce in seconds. Or maybe it’s the kind of thing only I get excited about.


In any case, once the sauce has thickened up, toss in your berries. I used frozen ‘cause I’m cheap. But if your last name’s “Trump” then go ahead a blow your kid’s inheritance on a couple cups of the fresh stuff. At this point, the sauce is more or less done. Just take it off the heat and cover until your ready to plate up your final brunchy goodness.

Next we need to get down to business with the actual toast. First, chop up the Chollah! Bread. (This must have been named in the Jewish ghetto right?!) This is a wonderful eggy bread that sops up any most anything. Just like those shammys from the 2 AM infomercials…but more delicious. You should have about 8 slices when all’s said and done.

Wait, did I just do a whole step with no booze. Let’s fix that: next we create the egg wash for the toast. (I guess this is the “French” part…) Beat together the eggs and Triple Sec. Not a TON, but you want to know it’s in there. (You’ll see why I point this out in the recap…) After that, you’ll pour in some of the other French toast standards: eggs, milk, OJ, vanilla extract, nutmeg, salt… Whisk thoroughly.

I should note, aspiring chefs, that you can tweak this to fit your taste. Wanna try almond extract? Go nuts! How’s about skipping the OJ and some fresh lemonade? Could be good. Long story short, if the list of ingredients sounds good to you, then it’ll more than likely taste good at the end. And if it does…well kids, that’s what we call learning!

Now there are diverging theories on how long you should let bread soak in this egg mix. Some say it can hang out in there for a while. Me, myself, I’m a quick dipper. A couple 5-10 seconds on each side is OK with me. This helps give me flavorful toast without it becoming all soggy and sick. But again, personal opinion.


Once you have your toasts all good and French-ed it’s a simple matter of frying. For this recipe, I melted some butter in the pan over medium heat and fried the delicious slabs for about 5 minutes a side.




So, the end results were good. Not great sadly, but very acceptable. We all agreed that there probably should have been more triple sec or OJ. I didn’t get enough orange flavor to differentiate it from the “normal” French toast I order at our local greasy spoon. However, I thought the berry compote was excellent. And it was even better with ice cream the next day!

VIDEO: Kitty Boxing

Your Moment of Zen.

COCKTAIL: Pineapple Sangria

On a random, rainy Friday afternoon, Alan and I were perusing the cookbooks for dinner ideas, so I surfed (does anyone say "surfed" anymore...?) over to Epicurious.com to poke around for culinary inspiration. Shining like a brilliant topaz among recipes for Lamb Skewers with Hot Mint and Pistachio Sauce and Asian Avocado Salad was this simple recipe. We cut the mint (it's used as a garnish, not for flavor) and used a 2007 Dancing Bull sauvignon blanc.

Hindsight being 20/20, I would have cut the pineapple soda and used ginger ale. It was a bit cloying in its sweetness. Also, next time I'd like to try prosecco in place of the white wine to give it some sparkle and a different profile.

Oh, and careful with this stuff. It works quick.

Whatcha Need:

3 cups pineapple juice
1 bottle dry white wine, such as Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc
1 cup brandy
1 ripe pineapple, cut into 1-inch chunks
1 cup pineapple soda
1 bunch fresh mint, roughly chopped
1 orange, supremed

Whatcha Do:

In a pitcher, combine the pineapple juice, wine, brandy, pineapple chunks, orange slices, and soda and stir. Pour over ice into large wineglasses and garnish with the mint.

In which the blogger just can't wait any longer, dammit

My butt has been puckering in anticipation of The Dark Knight for weeks. What can I say? The dark anti-hero thing turns me on. Let the following be a precursory nod to what is sure to be my very first film-induced orgasm.