And so, this very evening, that the rain fell down upon us, and the wind howled in front of us, and our skateboards got a tiny bit wet, so skating was a no-no. It was in great disdain that this happened us, the weary travelers from o'er the hill. So with a belly full of Aldi style crunchy nut cereal, we descended the bridge on the way home, debating what to do now. Oreos were a must, as the first call of order. Beer, second. Third, ingest said substances and reminisce. Thus, the great tale of which I have spoken has led me here to you, oh wisest of internets. I shall abide to you in future; you shall know what must be undertaken.
I digress.
For now, I shall be chilling in my sitting-room, with my cold can of Pratsky (that's not the correct spelling, but I prefer it), and listen to the Pretty Reckless. Damn. Not entirely sure where I'm going with this week's edition of bullhassy, but how and ever. I haven't thought about a title as of yet, but food it shall not be. I want to watch Gossip Girl, might just do that. Anyone who is into real die hard, shit hitting the fan, balls to the wall drama, check it out. Best show I have seen in a long time, since Pokemon before it turned into the sado-communist ideals, manipulator of children's minds.
The Pratsky is edging ever closer towards the temperature of Mount Doom, I shall indulge swift and quick. The nectar of the elders is sweet, but she's a demon in her own right. She has a crisp outer body, yet soft to the touch. She'll let you caress her, make her your own, but she will remain distant in the mind's eye. Always there, never to be seen fully until she wills it. When she touches your lips, she makes your heart jump in glee, yet you know this newly found happiness is in essence only temporary, so that same movement of your heart only relinquishes to drop harder than the bass at any given generic house night. She has that slow moving effect of hurting, but doing so in a way that you won't notice until the fire has covered you from tip to toe. Her art is menacing; you will keep going to her, while she flaunts with other beings. You'll chase her to the doorstep of her home, yet you will not get in. All you want is one minute alone with her you tell her father, but he has already left to find the shotgun. I say again, she will lie with you in your arms embrace, but she won't love you. She can't. She's a beer can. A nice one too, at that.
Halfway through the Pretty Reckless album after skipping a couple of songs. How I love that band. Oh, how I do.
Title shall be Loving Beer Cans, for everyone does but won't admit it. Or else they will admit it, and never shut the fuck up about it. They love the crack, in a very aggressive, intimidating way. Oh, how you do in your vain way.
Go check out Diemonds - Take On The Night. Aw yis, I bet they're happy I gave 'em a mention. I know I am.
This weeks post was short, I will admit, and I'll be the first to admit that I've had better days. But I'll sign off now as I've run out of ideas of what to say. You know you love me. XOXO. Gossip Girl.
Thursday, 8 May 2014
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
The Discontent With Coleslaw
Already a few of you quick-witted average-graded geniuses may have noticed that this is not the only post containing a food related topic. Indeed. However, I like food. And shall continue to do so in this equal society. However, I do not like when manufacturers put onion - the devil's balls, the stripper's arsenal, the elephant's baby-call... - into coleslaw. Yes, I do like onion, but when this shit is laid on me, I refuse. Not today. Although in saying these bold rebellious thoughts of mine on this week's edition, I literally just bought a tub of the creamy goodness. It should probably be called the creamy-not so-goodness, as it had a vast 2% of tha mothafucka in it. Oh, it makes my neck shiver like a cold summer's morn, where the sun is off in the West in LA shaking in the corner with white powder creeping up his face from his nose in a taunting smile. Oh, the mildly average horror.
As I was saying, why do these manufacturers put the devil's balls into such a beauty of a being? It was meant to be otherwise. The soft cloud-like impersonation of the coleslaw simply invited a block of Cork cheese to be basted upon her, calling like the ancient pirates of folklore to their long lost lovers. I miss the days when one did not have to be oppressed into this materialistic culture, born to consume only average foodstuffs. I would much prefer to live out in the Bush, maybe in Australia, although I cannot be certain as I've never been there. I hear over there you can see plantations of wild-grown coleslaw trees, of the breed Brassica Oleracea, which I haven't seen since my days as a young 'un in the fields of home.
Where this preposterous idea to indulge in an old man's... you know what I mean, at the same time is confusing. Some say the ancient pilgrims brought it from the west. Some say Bowie tripped out one night in his friend Dave's gaf, and was speaking backwards Latin until he came down from his peak. Interpretation? Maybe. However I for one have a different idea.
I believe that through evolution, with man standing proudly side-by-side with the coleslaw tree, somewhere along the way of human rights abuse and slavery, or some other stuff, the tree's philosophical rituals became tainted. Thus, an offspring was produced which none had seen before, not even the Mayans. Humankind began to evolve in a different way from then on. The rituals they had became focused on unimportant things. They focused on the sun, the light, the moon. These things were not creamy indulgences. These were mere otherworldly ideas. They tainted man's ideals and drove him from what he knew to be right and just.
Around 2300BC, in stone engraving on Mound Psincler, in the far Far East, this offspring took hold in a crooked little man's garden. He was unwise in the ways of the tree, so took no regard for it, not knowing the beast that was pulsing and writhing quite literally on his doorstep. Again, history is foggy for the next thousand years or so, until we see the Egyptians in Cairo. They were philosophical insofar as they studied the ancient cultures from afar, much noticeably the history of the Brassica Oleracea. But what they had missed was one very small, very crucial detail. One detail that changed the history of consumerism for the next 5000 years. The Brassica that was in their gardens; that was feeding their cattle, their children, was not the Brassica of old. It was the new strain, the horrible tasting Brassica Allium Cepa. It is easy for a modern historian to look back and pontificate about this or that fact, but it remains clear that this people did not understand what they were initiating.
One may weep, or cry, or very much be aroused if the case may be. But it remains to be said from our fathers' fathers, and their fathers, that this is not folklore in the greater meaning of the word. This is fact, and Bowie himself would not debate that. For that night he was tweaked in Dave's house was no accident. For on that night, the stars and the acid dealers had aligned. The Mayans were right about one certain thing; David Bowie had seen existence as one, and what he had seen was the past replicating itself before his very own mashed mind; a mind that was more mashed than a potato on Christmas Day. He had seen the plant from its beginnings, to its end in the future, of which I shall not speak here.
So when, next, I am in the supermarket of my choice, I shall stray from modernity and consumerism, and gallivant to the smaller market store next door, which breeds their own coleslaw trees, on their own plantations. This is the future, my people, for only by investing money into this corporate disgrace from the ancient history are we advocating support for the corruption that is, in fact that was and always shall be until Bowie predicted it shall not be, the Onion flavored Coleslaw.
As I was saying, why do these manufacturers put the devil's balls into such a beauty of a being? It was meant to be otherwise. The soft cloud-like impersonation of the coleslaw simply invited a block of Cork cheese to be basted upon her, calling like the ancient pirates of folklore to their long lost lovers. I miss the days when one did not have to be oppressed into this materialistic culture, born to consume only average foodstuffs. I would much prefer to live out in the Bush, maybe in Australia, although I cannot be certain as I've never been there. I hear over there you can see plantations of wild-grown coleslaw trees, of the breed Brassica Oleracea, which I haven't seen since my days as a young 'un in the fields of home.
Where this preposterous idea to indulge in an old man's... you know what I mean, at the same time is confusing. Some say the ancient pilgrims brought it from the west. Some say Bowie tripped out one night in his friend Dave's gaf, and was speaking backwards Latin until he came down from his peak. Interpretation? Maybe. However I for one have a different idea.
I believe that through evolution, with man standing proudly side-by-side with the coleslaw tree, somewhere along the way of human rights abuse and slavery, or some other stuff, the tree's philosophical rituals became tainted. Thus, an offspring was produced which none had seen before, not even the Mayans. Humankind began to evolve in a different way from then on. The rituals they had became focused on unimportant things. They focused on the sun, the light, the moon. These things were not creamy indulgences. These were mere otherworldly ideas. They tainted man's ideals and drove him from what he knew to be right and just.
Around 2300BC, in stone engraving on Mound Psincler, in the far Far East, this offspring took hold in a crooked little man's garden. He was unwise in the ways of the tree, so took no regard for it, not knowing the beast that was pulsing and writhing quite literally on his doorstep. Again, history is foggy for the next thousand years or so, until we see the Egyptians in Cairo. They were philosophical insofar as they studied the ancient cultures from afar, much noticeably the history of the Brassica Oleracea. But what they had missed was one very small, very crucial detail. One detail that changed the history of consumerism for the next 5000 years. The Brassica that was in their gardens; that was feeding their cattle, their children, was not the Brassica of old. It was the new strain, the horrible tasting Brassica Allium Cepa. It is easy for a modern historian to look back and pontificate about this or that fact, but it remains clear that this people did not understand what they were initiating.
One may weep, or cry, or very much be aroused if the case may be. But it remains to be said from our fathers' fathers, and their fathers, that this is not folklore in the greater meaning of the word. This is fact, and Bowie himself would not debate that. For that night he was tweaked in Dave's house was no accident. For on that night, the stars and the acid dealers had aligned. The Mayans were right about one certain thing; David Bowie had seen existence as one, and what he had seen was the past replicating itself before his very own mashed mind; a mind that was more mashed than a potato on Christmas Day. He had seen the plant from its beginnings, to its end in the future, of which I shall not speak here.
So when, next, I am in the supermarket of my choice, I shall stray from modernity and consumerism, and gallivant to the smaller market store next door, which breeds their own coleslaw trees, on their own plantations. This is the future, my people, for only by investing money into this corporate disgrace from the ancient history are we advocating support for the corruption that is, in fact that was and always shall be until Bowie predicted it shall not be, the Onion flavored Coleslaw.
Monday, 5 May 2014
Homo-Tree take1
And so the chronicles and branches of thought of Homo Tree, the sexually confused Tree, begin. No, I am not advocating that sexual orientation is something to be considered when forming thoughts about a person; this is a motherfuckin' tree dude. Relax. We relaxed? Good.
Homo Tree began as an idea in the depths of this author's heart. The mere beginnings were slim; the ideas premature; the humanity in essence. Formed within the daydreams of the author's long winters' eves, this story came to light. Homo Tree began his life in a meadow, and day and night he stood, with passers by spreading their lore underneath his cold, unfeeling leaves. Then, in the midst of a blue Summer's sky, a young fellow plonked his lonely ass down under Homo Tree. Homo Tree knew, then, that he had feelings for men. That's all the background you need. For now, he has become the commonplace of existentialist thought and nonsensical debating. This weeks episode features dragons, explosions, and naked bewbs.
First off, have you ever thought about how, when you fall over, gravity may be fuckin' yo bitch. Like, imagine if every time you fell over, it was gravity herself, the maiden, messing with you. Saying gravity is even throughout the whole world, even down that part of the country you've never been to, but have some relatives in, is like insinuating that... I'll think of something later. But have you ever wondered how all those peeps on board the Star Trek ship, and Darth Vader's crib, like, didn't just float away. Even when the doors to let the ships out were open, not one G floated away. JA 1: Reality 0. Imagine it, Vader and the crew ready for take off, then one motherfucker floats majestically into the distance, with the camera focusing on him/her until they are merely a spec in the distance of reality. So sentimental, so just. So... digressive.
So imagine it. Gravity up in her layer under the sea, or land, or whatever, and you happen to walk by during the best scene imaginable in Sex and the City. Pissed, and with half a tub of Valium inside of her, she stampedes out, to hear you walking down your corridor in your house. You have your hot coco-pops, ready for digesting, and she yanks them from you, while tripping you up. You fall, and le coco-pops go flying, crashing unusually fast upon the oak floor. Flustered, you stand up, and you haven't a scooby what made you fall. Gravity bitch, fucking you up one coco-pop at a time. Deal_with_it.gif.
And so Homo Tree debates these notions. He entertains a thought or two, then discards, for Homo Tree knows not to dwell on insignificant things. Although he does like to ponder the odd Deal Or No Deal solution, he has his notions about which thoughts should remain in the forefront of his brain. Rain, sunshine, snow; these are the important things in life. And of course, him, that fair young fellow.
This concludes Homo Tree episode one. Tune in next time for more made up emails from fictional people, and of course, more bewbs. Script.
Homo Tree began as an idea in the depths of this author's heart. The mere beginnings were slim; the ideas premature; the humanity in essence. Formed within the daydreams of the author's long winters' eves, this story came to light. Homo Tree began his life in a meadow, and day and night he stood, with passers by spreading their lore underneath his cold, unfeeling leaves. Then, in the midst of a blue Summer's sky, a young fellow plonked his lonely ass down under Homo Tree. Homo Tree knew, then, that he had feelings for men. That's all the background you need. For now, he has become the commonplace of existentialist thought and nonsensical debating. This weeks episode features dragons, explosions, and naked bewbs.
First off, have you ever thought about how, when you fall over, gravity may be fuckin' yo bitch. Like, imagine if every time you fell over, it was gravity herself, the maiden, messing with you. Saying gravity is even throughout the whole world, even down that part of the country you've never been to, but have some relatives in, is like insinuating that... I'll think of something later. But have you ever wondered how all those peeps on board the Star Trek ship, and Darth Vader's crib, like, didn't just float away. Even when the doors to let the ships out were open, not one G floated away. JA 1: Reality 0. Imagine it, Vader and the crew ready for take off, then one motherfucker floats majestically into the distance, with the camera focusing on him/her until they are merely a spec in the distance of reality. So sentimental, so just. So... digressive.
So imagine it. Gravity up in her layer under the sea, or land, or whatever, and you happen to walk by during the best scene imaginable in Sex and the City. Pissed, and with half a tub of Valium inside of her, she stampedes out, to hear you walking down your corridor in your house. You have your hot coco-pops, ready for digesting, and she yanks them from you, while tripping you up. You fall, and le coco-pops go flying, crashing unusually fast upon the oak floor. Flustered, you stand up, and you haven't a scooby what made you fall. Gravity bitch, fucking you up one coco-pop at a time. Deal_with_it.gif.
And so Homo Tree debates these notions. He entertains a thought or two, then discards, for Homo Tree knows not to dwell on insignificant things. Although he does like to ponder the odd Deal Or No Deal solution, he has his notions about which thoughts should remain in the forefront of his brain. Rain, sunshine, snow; these are the important things in life. And of course, him, that fair young fellow.
This concludes Homo Tree episode one. Tune in next time for more made up emails from fictional people, and of course, more bewbs. Script.
Sunday, 4 May 2014
Pasta Sauce
Pasta Sauce
This is for two fabulous people. Get
one tin of tomatoes, doesn't matter if they're diced up or not, you
can do that with a knife in the pot by swishing it around making
swishing sounds. Put it on a low heat in a pot so that it's warm for
later. You'll need only HALF an onion per person, so one onion.
Whoever said an onion per person never got the honeys because that is
a serious amount of onion. Get a decent clove of garlic; I like a lot
of garlic so if you don't then maybe a little less. Tell that
bitchin' garlic who the man. Slice everything up after peeling them,
and throw em in the pot. Not the skins. Please, not the skins. At
this stage the hip-hop mixtape you have on the stereo should be about
two to three songs in. Vital timing (not really).
Now for the 'oibs. I call them herbs.
I overload it quite frequently so I'll give you two ways to do it.
Number Uno. Put in some diced fresh
basil, and a teaspoon of sugar to get rid of that bitterness of the
tomatoes. Let it simmer for about half an hour, longer on a low heat.
Voila, lovely nice pasta sauce.
Number Two. Get some dried oregano (I
say some because I love loads, but you might not), basil, sage (basil
and sage are like Romeo and Juliet, without the spoiler), a little
bit of parsley if it's there (I never have any), and a little chilli
never goes astray. Don't go near those readily made Italian mixed
herbs and such, they don't know what you want to taste so they give
you genericism at its corporate finest. I much prefer venting my
creativeness in the pot. They key ingredient any decent hard-working
non-generic chef will tell you that you always, always, always need
cinnamon. I was once someone who was not acquainted with the fine
spice that is cinnamon. Then it changed when I emptied a quarter of a
tub of it in on top of my new pasta sauce. Lord above. You need
cinnamon in your life. It works like sugar, getting rid of that tangy
taste of the tomatoes. Only, if you overload the motherfucker out of
it, you'll end up with those cinnamon cakes. Not too gone on them, if
I say so. Also learned by me was when you put cinnamon in first, put
in a little splash of soy sauce. You'll get the most authentic
smelling stir-fry dish you've ever smelled. Now I wonder what they
put in those pre-packaged things? So go ahead, put in a splash of the
black stuff.
Did I mention salt and pepper? No
salt. Never salt. Salt bad. Salt make things salty. A bit of pepper
always helps, gives it that Steve Austin edge. We all need wrestling
in our food. Hip-hop mix should be about half an hour in at this
stage.
Let that stuff simmer for as long as
you see fit. I usually get bored or hungry so take it off the stove
then. For the love of fuck stir it. It'll stick to the bottom of the
pot, or turn the pot black. It looks funny, and tastes funnier.
Add all this mix to whatever food you
want. You can add in the likes of mushrooms for good aul' reliable.
Peppers make it a bit sweeter. Carrots (which I like to grate up
before cooking them to make it faster) make it much sweeter; they
must be about 90% sugar or some black magic. Peppers work well too.
Any colour pepper is nice, we aren't racist here.
Just remember when you are cooking for
other people, and they see you molesting that herb rack, and start
mouthing about how they don't like this or that herb, or cinnamon,
heed what they say. Then when they turn around fuck in as much as you
can until they turn back around. Voila.
Saturday, 3 May 2014
Um Hm
So I installed Chrome for this very specific task of logging into my blogger account. Why must one individual have to delete cookies in order to access one's own account? Racism, that's why. (But James, that don't make no sense!!1!) Exactly, I wonder why.
Anyhow, maybe this shall become the new start for the Chronicles of Homo-Tree, or maybe something (easily) better. We shall see. Oh yes, yes we shall - I said as I patted myself on my gorgeous back. I digress.
I wonder how it shall play out. Again, we shall see. Maybe like Bugs Bunny. Become a massive self-absorbed asshole who has no respect at all for anyone. Yes, Bugs, you're an asshole, but you're a lovable asshole. As a child, as like everyone, I didn't realize how much so, but you have gotten my attention again Bugs, and many times shall I watch you proceed to fuck with everybody in your enjoyable way. Come to think of it, your fucking with people is much like modern politics or something along those lines; something enjoyable that I cannot think of at the moment. I digress.
Have you ever seen a plane flying above you and just think - Damn, motha, how you do that? Nah, neither have I.
I wish to make this blog a musical review of many sorts. An album every two days sounds about right. Does it sound a tad overanticipating or something? Probably. So was Hitler, and look where that got him. If you read this and you have an album you would recommend, or one of your own, pop it over. The blog email is thatsnotmeiswear@gmail.com. I shall update the info page, in my own time. I am an independent person. I am a consumer. I am free.
I'll end tonight with a quote.
Anyhow, maybe this shall become the new start for the Chronicles of Homo-Tree, or maybe something (easily) better. We shall see. Oh yes, yes we shall - I said as I patted myself on my gorgeous back. I digress.
I wonder how it shall play out. Again, we shall see. Maybe like Bugs Bunny. Become a massive self-absorbed asshole who has no respect at all for anyone. Yes, Bugs, you're an asshole, but you're a lovable asshole. As a child, as like everyone, I didn't realize how much so, but you have gotten my attention again Bugs, and many times shall I watch you proceed to fuck with everybody in your enjoyable way. Come to think of it, your fucking with people is much like modern politics or something along those lines; something enjoyable that I cannot think of at the moment. I digress.
Have you ever seen a plane flying above you and just think - Damn, motha, how you do that? Nah, neither have I.
I wish to make this blog a musical review of many sorts. An album every two days sounds about right. Does it sound a tad overanticipating or something? Probably. So was Hitler, and look where that got him. If you read this and you have an album you would recommend, or one of your own, pop it over. The blog email is thatsnotmeiswear@gmail.com. I shall update the info page, in my own time. I am an independent person. I am a consumer. I am free.
I'll end tonight with a quote.
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