I adore cooking. I cook all the time. I make sandwiches, toast, hot dogs; you name it, I’ve done it. Sometimes, if I’m feeling really wild, I cook up a bag of Tyson chicken.
I really am a connoisseur when it comes to my ingredients. Only the finest bagged chicken for me; none of that Great Value crap. It takes a strong man to make a tender chicken, and it takes an ever stronger man to buy good ingredients. If I used any old kind of frozen chicken tenders, I wouldn’t be able to bring out the pure, rubbery taste that comes from high-quality tenders. Every single cooking show I’ve ever seen has stressed the importance of good ingredients, and tee vee hasn’t let me down yet.
The only way I could become a better chef is if someone teaches me how to use the microwave — you can only do so much with a toaster oven.
Many of you astute readers may have noticed that I don’t watch sports or know how many sports work, so this video gave me an enormous amount of pleasure. Not only do I know exactly what’s going on, I’m glad that it’s happening. If you’re wearing tights you deserve everything that’s coming to you. No exceptions. I don’t care if you’re Shakespeare, if I see you wearing tights I’m going to hurl you to the ground and laugh at you. Watching 50 or more people in tights hurl themselves to the ground makes me feel like it’s Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one package. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more.
If there were more accidents I might feel obliged to actually watch sports instead of waiting for the Live Leak highlight reels. It’s an objective fact that people watch hockey for the fighting, NASCAR for the crashes, and soccer for the occasional riot or terrorist attack. All sports need some ulterior reason to be watched. Football needs more machete-fights. Basketballs should explode at random to turn matches into insane games of hot-potato. More than anything else, the Olympic Biathlon needs a bit of the ole ultraviolence:
I’d buy their album. I’d get the exclusive, tour t-shirt. I’d wait around after the show just so I could tell the drummer that he rocked my socks off. I’d tell my friends to go download their tracks off YouTube and then maybe buy the album if they were feeling it. I’d do all of these things if I could be bothered, but I’m a very busy man who can’t chase around every band that catches my fancy. That’s what groupies are for anyways — and I don’t have breasts, so what good would I be?
There are other ways to support a band that you like other than fanatically buying all of their albums, mix-tapes, and bootlegs. You can always send them a strongly worded letter about how rad you think they are, or leave nice messages on their answering machine. I used to burn nice notes into their front lawn at night, so they’d wake up to find a few pleasant words. Unfortunately, I’m legally obliged to never do that again. Some people take their lawn very seriously, apparently.
Remember, it’s the thought that counts. Whether you buy a band’s album, subscribe to their YouTube, or send them an ear, they’ll always be appreciative. Except for the ear part, don’t do that. Paul McCartney really didn’t appreciate getting another one of those in the mail.
Way out west there was this fella… fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Koa Smith. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Mr. Smith, he called himself “The Dude”.
Now, “Dude” — that’s a name no one would self-apply where I come from. But then there was a lot about the Dude that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise. But then again, maybe that’s why I found the place so darned interestin’. They call Africa the “A Flaming Hellhole.” I didn’t find it to be that, exactly. But I’ll allow there are some nice folks there. ‘Course I can’t say I’ve seen London, and I ain’t never been to France. And I ain’t never seen no queen in her damned undies, so the feller says. But I’ll tell you what – after seeing Africa and this here story I’m about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin’ every bit as stupefyin’ as you’d see in any of them other places. And in English, too. So I can die with a smile on my face, without feelin’ like the good Lord gypped me.
Now this here story I’m about to unfold took place back in the early 2010s — I only mention it because sometimes there’s a man… I won’t say a hero, ’cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a man. And I’m talkin’ about the Dude here. Sometimes, there’s a man, well, he’s the man for his time and place. He fits right in there. And that’s the Dude, in Africa. And even if he’s a lazy man – and the Dude was most certainly that. Quite possibly the laziest in Africa, which would place him high in the runnin’ for laziest worldwide. But sometimes there’s a man, sometimes, there’s a man. Aw. I lost my train of thought here. But — aw, hell. I’ve done introduced him enough.