Jessica:
[White castle burgers ]sound indescribably awful.
juliana:
They are, but they always seem to be just the thing to cap off a night of drunkenness. You're stumbling home from the bar, and all of sudden you think, "Heeyyyyyyy, I could really go for some grease. What's open? White Castle? YEAH! A couple of sliders would really hit the spot!" So you join the horde of drunks milling about in the White Castle, scarfing down the cheeseburgers and boxes of fries, thinking that you're so smart to get some food in your stomach to soak up the booze.
Then, of course, you wake up the next day and your intestinal tract is sitting next to your liver, and they're both nursing a cup of coffee and a cigarette and glaring at you, all "Dude, you could have gone for the Wendy's, you know that? NO, you had to have the White Castle, didn't you? Bastard." And then the intestinal tract runs to the bathroom, and the liver gets up and stomps out to make another pot of coffee, making sure to slam the door very loudly.
I'm not sure who the first person is ...
Heather Alayne: I just read that Tom Ridge is thinking of quitting for the private sector because $175 K isn't enough to send his kids to college.
JZ :
t vomits
Oh, for fuck's sake. Boo-hoo! Let me wipe away the tears with my PLASTIC HAND, or the paycheck-to-paycheck working-class equivalent of that retort. Somebody needs to go all Lindsey on his ass.
Benno: [eyeroll] Babies.
May I just say, on behalf of my two-and-a-half-year-old, definitely-no-longer-a-baby, non-stop-talking-bilingual son: Hah!
I'm stunned.
I'm so stunned that I save my COMM reading up for the weekend, certain that I will never appear here and, therefore, be in the position of making a quick thank you. But, hey, turns out I was wrong.
Thanks Theodosia for selecting my garbage (topic not content) story to be COMM'ed.
My verra first time.
::small curtsey::
Thanks for the COMM, ita. I feel I should point out for the record that those Google results deal with the movies of Roger Daltrey, the War on Terror, English history 1903-1955, stranglings, and a newsletter called Rampant Scotland, which is almost funnier than the kangaroo trying to drown Aragorn.
As per usual,
Spike's Bitches
talk food and love
Polter-Cow:
My meals rotate through the following list:
- Turkey hot dogs
- Frozen pizza
- Actual pizza
- Lunchmeat sandwiches
- Tyson chicken patty burgers
- Pasta-Roni
- Macaroni and cheese
- Spaghetti (recently, with garlic cheese Texas toast, mmm)
- Indian-food-in-a-box
- Something cheap and microwaveable
amych:
Kids! Stop the cycle of bad food now while you're still young -- otherwise a terrifying future of bachelor chow in a tube awaits you.
Emily:
Polter-Cow, I laugh at your feeble efforts to claim boringness of menu. In my pre-vw days, I was down to alternating pizza with frozen burritos.
Polter-Cow:
See, every time I go to the supermarket, I say, "Okay, this time I'll try something different." I've had the same menu for pretty much a year now. But then I just stick with what I know, cause I'm cheap and lazy. I can also make a quesadilla or a grilled burrito, and if I try really hard I can make enchiladas, but I keep forgetting I have those materials. Oh, this one time I made a peanut butter sandwich.
Nora:
Another food note: Tom cooked chicken mole and coffee flan and we watched Once Upon a Time in Mexico last night. I love theme nights!
Polter-Cow:
You. People. Are. Killing. Me.
Nora:
P-C, you should take a cooking class of some sort (or several, or get a friend who knows how to cook to tutor you) for 2 reasons:
1) you would be able to feed yourself in the style to which you wish to become accustomed;
2) Chicks love a man who can cook.
Teppy:
I love a guy who can cook, pretty much because (1) I can't, and (2) I love to eat.
I don't get much out of watching a guy cook for me, though. It's too stressful. I feel like I should be helping instead of sitting there like an ingrate.
Though, don't get me wrong, competence is sexy. WAY sexy.
Polter-Cow:
But incompetence is endearing and charming, right? Right? Please?
Teppy:
Why do you think women find fumbling, bumbling Hugh Grant so sexy?
later...
Polter-Cow:
I checked inside the refrigerator, and, as I suspected, my Mission flour tortillas were as pristine as they were nearly a year ago. Those things keep for fucking forever.
I tossed them on the counter, along with the shredded cheese from the freezer. I nimbly retrieved a can of Taco Bell refried beans from the upper shelf and then grabbed the stash of Taco Bell hot sauce packets out of the fridge. Finally, I procured the small tub of margarine and large container of Pace picante sauce. I put a frying pan on the range in Quadrant III and a small pot (freshly cleaned) on Quadrant I and turned the appropriate dials on the stove.
My imaginary date watched in awe, but not shock.
I poured some oil in the pot, opened the can of beans, and spooned the beans into the pot. After several moments, it became clear that I had turned on the wrong range, front instead of rear. I rectified my mistake and poured some picante sauce into the beans.
My imaginary date laughed softly, thinking of the hot, wild sex that a man so inept could provide her.
Meanwhile, in Quadrant III, a dollop of margarine melted as I employed rotational wrist action to the frying pan. I placed a tortilla on the pan and quickly took a handful of cheese from the bag. I sprinkled a good amount onto the right half and spooned several dollops of beans (now mixed with picante goodness) onto the line of cheese. I applied the Taco Bell hot sauce. Finally, I added some more cheese atop the beans.
The smell informed me that as usual, I had burned the first one. Lifting the other half up with a spatula confirmed this, and the fact that I had left the dial halfway between med and hi explained it.
Behind me, I heard her say, "Oh! It burns so gooood."
I folded the failed quesadilla and flipped it for completion's sake. Then I transferred it to a styrofoam plate and prepared to try again, with the dial between lo and med.
The second one went far better, with few hitches, despite the inevitable stray material hitting the bare pan, no longer protected by the soft carbohydratacular goodness of the tortilla.
"Oh yes!" she said. "Sizzle! I can feel it sizzle! Oh God yes!"
With the third one, I finished off my penultimate bag of cheese. I dumped it all on the tortilla and spread it onto the right half with my hands, evening out the distribution.
"You touch that cheese!" she said. "Touch it, baby! Yeah!"
With the bean-and-cheese quesadillas more or less competently made, we settled down to watch a classic episode of Gilmore Girls, followed by appropriate behavior for the Couch of Sin.
Beans and cheese and tortillas. God bless Mexican ingenuity.
