Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Yet again, I have been singled out for undeserved and unwelcome praise - three times. And, yet again, I will be an ungrateful dolt, making fun of the wonderful people who gave me awards.
Lola (L-O-L-A, LOLA!) over at Aglio, Olio & Peperoncino has given me the following doodad.
I rather like this one, actually. However, since I intend to accept the third award with absolutely no viciousness whatsoever (and I bet that piques your curiosity) I have to make hay while the sun shines. Sorry, Charlie! Oops, I mean Lola!
(All of my readers from the U.K., under the age of 6, will get that reference. HERE'S the explanation for the rest of you.)
Lola (make up your own 'Lola' jokes from here on out, I don't think you could do any worse) writes a blog full of all kinds of recipes and stories about food.
(As a matter of fact, all three of these awards have at least something to do with things you put in your mouth. You'll see.)
Lola resides in Rome, Italy. As everyone knows, Mussolini came from Italy and he was fat, so we can assume he liked Italian food. Therefore, via my usual impeccable logic, I have decided that Lola's blog is a fascist plot to overthrow the United States government by means of making us so grossly obese that our president won't be able to release the nuclear weapons because his button-pushing-finger will be too pudgy! I suggest everybody boycott Italian restaurants for at least the next twenty years, just to be safe.
(By the way, what's up with pasta? I love me a good plate of spaghetti and meatballs, but let's face facts, people. All pasta is the same stuff. The only difference is the shape. What's up with that? It's like if you called a plum a plum, but if it got all dried up and wrinkly, you called it something else entirely. Silly Italians! You've got your macaroni, linguine, fusilli, spaghetti, bucatini, fettuccine, tagliatelle, penne, manicotti, righetti, andretti, lasorda, conigliaro, esposito, petrocelli, canzoneri, and ferragamo. The list is endless, but this joke only seems so. Cerone! Let's try something else.)
I make you smile, Lola? Have you been smoking oregano? It is not my intention to make you smile. Everything I write is deadly serious.
For example, look at THIS.
(Holy Mary On A Merry-Go-Round! Did I actually put that stuff out in public? I guess so. If I wasn't the one who did it, then I should be busy hunting down and slaying whoever it was that did do it! What a desecration to my ultimate legacy!)
That kind of thing makes you smile, Lola? You are one SICK woman. Do you always make fun of the handicapped, or is it just a special exception in my case? It's not easy being the way I am, you know. Folks like you should have a bit more sympathy. Someday, maybe you'll end up like this...
And it's not easy living with a parasitic twin up your nose, let me tell you.
Enough about Lolasaurus. It's time for some dessert cleverly disguised as breakfast food!
Pouty Baby has given me The Pop Tart Award. Here's what it said over at her place.
"... the Pop Tart Award [is] to be given to bloggers who have an addictive story line."
Me? An addictive story line? Around here, there isn't consistency from hour to hour, let alone day to day. I go from blasphemous rants to nostalgic childhood memories to ridiculously overblown softball epics to cheap jokes involving the destruction of a dildo.
(Oops! Didn't mean to give that away. The dildo story is next week. Well, at least now I've guaranteed that the perverts among you - and, judging from the reactions, that would be most of you - will be coming back.)
The point is, I may be addictive, but only if you lick me, because I'm still sweating out pain meds I took back in the 80's. The only story line here is my megalomania (and perhaps the possibility of seeing someone get so insulted that he'll pop me one in the nose, but I think Fast Freddy Goodman has a good enough sense of humor to take a joke, and... Oops! Didn't mean to give that away, either. The joke about Fast Freddy is next paragraph. Well, at least I know that the Fast Freddies among you - and, judging from the reactions, that would be nobody, so let's move on.) If you dig that sort of thing, I suppose it qualifies, but you surely have to realize that identifying yourself with me won't raise your esteem with the rest of the world.
I do like Pop Tarts, though, especially the frosted brown sugar cinnamon ones. I slather 'em in ketchup, wrap them up in big slices of baloney, and leave them scattered around the outfield in an attempt to find out if there's anything Fast Freddy Goodman won't eat. So far, they've all disappeared, but I haven't actually seen Fast Freddy eating them, so it may have been Big Jay Atton.
Eh. Now I'm just being weird.
(NOW he's just being weird?)
Thing is, I have little invective to dole out. It's too soon since the last time I released the beast. I'm still in my refractory period.
Mooing right along - and, no, that's not misspelled, which you'll understand in a moment - I received another award. It came from Michelle, over at The Surly Writer. So far as I know, I am - thus far - the sole recipient of this award. I'm the test pilot, I guess. And, well, WOO-HOO!
Hot damn! Somebody finally came up with an award I'm happy to accept!
(And no, I'm not giving it to anyone else. At least, not for another fifteen minutes or so. After that, you can have it, but it might be a bit worse for wear.)
Soon, with more (what would just about have to be) better stuff.