Sorry celiac sufferers, Jesus is made of wheat in the Catholic church. If you think you received the call into priestly duties you’re gonna have to grin and bear it that you’re Jesus pieces are wheat. What about rice or potato as a substitute you ask? The church chewed on that thought and says no with a defiantly sticky grin. There is no arroz in Jesus. Nor is there potato, sorry Idaho or Irish potato farmers. This guy must have been one picky eater not to have any rice or potato left in him for the Catholic celiac sufferers to dine on.
January 10, 2009
The Joys of Anger
I’ve had few chances in life to really experience the joys of anger, but perhaps a trip to another continent gives one a reason for rare experiences.
At least that’s my rationale
So what sparked this exuberant outpouring? I’m glad you asked
It was the satisfaction in knowing I could displease and anger someone else without them being able to retaliate. In essence, I won the argument before it could even begin.
How did I win?
With the perils of German road and drivers zipping by the end of the blind driveway my clever grandmother decided to try to stand in the driveway and signal to me when the coast was clear for my escape, unscathed hopefully.
There were three trials and errors, which resulted in my grandmother’s mad tapping on the trunk of the car to “oops! go back in the driveway, there are cars coming.”
I can’t resist to mention that this is my first time driving this rudimentary device known as a manual transmission and each time there is a false clearing of the roadway I have to maneuver from reverse to first gear without stalling or chance scathing my still perfect record.
Well, on the fourth start I assume that when a signal is given for “the coast is clear”, by golly it better be clear.
Yet again it’s a false start, another mad tapping on the trunk, however I react unexpectantly. I stay in the street, I mean, these cars will just have to stop for crying out loud. Now, me being in the street, it might behoove my grandmother to get in the car herself, but she keeps insisting that I go back into the driveway.
I “loose it”
Get in the car now…nothing…get in the car…still nothing…Get in the FUCKING car!
In she comes.
Not a word is said as the car jumps and sputters away from first to second and third gear until we reach the corner and stop and go without stalling…”gee you’re doing pretty well with this.”
“Well, yes I am, good that you noticed.”
January 10, 2009
i saw two lovely little cornish hens at publix yesterday, so i took them home with me. i don’t really know what to do with the twins but they looked so cute and plump in their tight little packages…is this how cute twins get raped? more on that thought later…
so tonight i pull out the twins and start looking for recipes
i find something sweet and savory that i think will highlight their plumpness quite well but it requires me to cut the hens in half.
now, these little ones have two sturdy impedments to being cut in half, a breastbone and the spinal column, how does one get these to seperate for a halved hen? well i certainly don’t know so i set out to do a lil research on the open net
how does one search for cutting a hen in half??
to me it appeared the best search phrase would be “cutting hen in half”
while i probably don’t need “in”, “cutting” “hen” and “half” pretty much sum up what i need to do
but “cutting” and “half” have already been triggered by a much more common “h” word “her”
and so google prompts me, as i must not mean “hen” but rather “her” to say
“did you mean cutting her in half?”
hmmmmm
how many people have meant that instead?
