Hipsters have ruined bacon. I have a sack of it in my fridge, but I don’t celebrate it like some Wiccan stump worshiper. I pretty much only eat it in the summer with good tomatoes. It doesn’t have to be on every damn thing. Bacon has basically become a condiment in the US. Soon, there will be a plate of it next to the salt on every table. It’s time to say enough with this bacon obsession. Things have gotten out of hand. Just look at Arby’s. Continue reading “Enough Bacon”
I like to dedicate these pages to my bitching about important things like cheeses I think stink, knitting, classical music and being fat. I’d like to thank you all for your interest in me complaining about these subjects. But, I have written something about the Carolina Panthers, of which I am a big fan. I didn’t post it here because I didn’t want to alienate my fans in Lithuania. So, I asked a friend of mine to put it on his more local Carolina sports blog. You know, a blog unlike mine that has a purpose and a subject. He graciously accepted. If you’re interested in this sort of thing, please check it out. If not, please carry on. I’ll be complaining about something mundane shortly.
Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. Looking back on my younger school days, I can remember the lame way we were taught about the first Thanksgiving like it was a wholesome party on top of Plymouth Rock. They ignored the fact that the Pilgrims had no business being there and the Native Americans would have been perfectly within their rights to shove a hot spear into thou’st rectums; but they didn’t.
My father thought I only liked the song because it had the word “bitch” in it. You can’t avoid it. The word is in the title. The song is “Ain’t That a Bitch” by Johnny Guitar Watson. I guess it was a sneaky way to get away with cursing while singing along, but that’s not why I listened. It was a logical conclusion for him to make given that I was a young white boy living in the comfortable suburbs of Charlotte, NC and the song was about a black man struggling to get by. He’s working forty hours, six long days. They are working poor folks to death and when he pays his rent and his car, he doesn’t have a damn thing left. How could I possible relate to that? But I did. Continue reading “Forgotten Blues”
Drunkenly, I love to try and relate to cab drivers. Not in some prick way like trying to make the “plebe” driver feel loved. No, it’s my own anxiety that makes me do it. I can’t stand being in the car with someone else in silence. If the dude can’t speak English, then I can justify the silence to myself, but other than that I have to talk. Continue reading “Reggae No Sober”
I’d like to crawl out of the “gutter” a minute and publish a lovely email I received today from an unhappy customer of Covered in Beer. I put my “knitting” piece on Ravelry.com, which is a forum for people who knit, just to see what they thought about it and to hopefully give them a laugh. Satire never hurt anyone too badly, but apparently it did this woman. I obviously added the graphics and links to enhance it a bit. I edited it by breaking up a few long paragraphs, but I didn’t add or remove any words. I can’t wait to hear if you agree with my new friend Beth and her annoying email address.
This is happening too often: Sunday is here, there’s a home game, we pull into our tailgate lot and crack open that first beer. Shortly there after a little tart, maybe 10 years old in a cheerleading uniform, shows up asking for donations so she and her team can go to “Nationals,” whatever the hell that is. I assume it’s where these little All-Star mooches can shake their rumps in a provocative manner in front of questionable judges at Disney World. I researched; the “Cheerleading Worlds” competition is held at Disney World every year. Despite its international name, it is never held in Indonesia or on the African continent or even outside of Florida for that matter because that would mean too much begging. Continue reading “Cheerleading’s Dark Side: Child Panhandlers”