Bacon Bits

What’s on the plate this morning? Or night? Or dessert?

The way you people (yea, you people) talk about bacon these days gives me extreme heartburn.

Today I reach for the rolling pin in hopes to pound out the most jovial, ubiquitous culinary saying. You know which one, too. Don’t act like you haven’t caught yourself saying it, trying to give yourself credibility somehow in an incredible world (wow, talk about trite… this is like The Dark Knight). 

Supposedly, bacon goes well with anything, but what I’m trying to prove that most people that say this arbitrarily throw out the saying without testing the endless possibilities.

Both socially and culinarally, bacon does not go well with everything. I’m saying this generally, but so are you. Let this be known, however: that I have utmost faith my observation more accurately defines the status of bacon than the blanket statement of “goes well with everything.” It simply does not.

First, we will divulge out grievances towards food specifically, since bacon is in fact food.

Have you ever thrown bacon on a cupcake? Sounds good, but you won’t really know if you haven’t tried it. Until you throw it on a cupcake you’re just talking out of your pork butt, which is actually more preferred to me than bacon, as it represents not only delicious meat, but the quandary of why its called a pork butt when it’s not actually the butt of a pig, but the swine’s shoulder.

Second: I like bacon, you like bacon, just shut the hell up about it. I’ve never, ever seen the kind of apoplectic affection that I have seen for bacon. Even at the mere mention of bacon in a room a mild, calm room can turn into a moaning, maniacal feverish crowd. 

It’s equivalent to a child seeing gifts under the holiday tree on the holiday we can’t mention – or better yet – a mid-twenty virgin seeing boobies for the first time drunkenly at a 311 show.

Both of those situation are understandable, though, because those are two situations that warrant an ill-fated response. A virgin can’t control himself, he’s prepared himself religiously in hiding for years, just to see a pair of mams in real life. He can’t control himself. A kid seeing gifts? From a magical being riding a super fast sleigh through the air? Being pushed by magical reindeer, whose feet, not touching the ground, run in the clouds?

Hearing the word “bacon” doesn’t warrant that response.  It warrants you shutting up and trying to steal a piece before breakfast is served, and that’s all.

Thirdly and possibly most importantly: You don’t need to wear a bacon tee-shirt either, or get a tattoo of a pig and the different cuts on a pig on your belly; it’s kind of cool if you’re the owner of a restaurant that specializes in smoked cuts of pig, but not if you’re a manager at Dunkin Donuts. No situation warrants the wearing of one of these tees, not even Bamboozle, and you can wear almost anything to that.

Lastly: Bacon is hardly ever considered the dominant protein in any meal, save for maybe breakfast, so please stop acting like it’s the main act. Bacon compliments meals like mayonnaise would or any other condiment.

Little story: I work at a restaurant. I’ve cooked for close to nine years and served 1,000,000 more roast beef sandwiches than BLT’s , which happen to have bacon and cost less. So what gives? I thought you all loved bacon. I never see anybody see or hear the word roast beef, anywhere, and foam at the mouth.

In summary, I would like to state that I too am an avid fan of bacon and, at times, you all make me want to veganize.

Random Thoughts:

Usually, I throw this bottom section into a free-for-all thought round about snip-its of banal ornate experiences throughout my day, but instead, I’ll bless you all with a top 20 later in the week. Something to look forward to for some.

A conversation.

“Permission to speak candidly.”

“Permission to speak candidly unaccepted. Be respectful. It’s been a while.”

"How about I be respectfully candid?”

“The way you speak candidly is akin to a hippo trying not to splash water in a zoo. You haven’t spoken to these idiots in a while, show them a little bit of gratitude for a change.”

“Them? Gratitude? You just called them idiots.”

“Good point, but no. Besides, what have you been doing this whole time. Squandering attempts at writing a novel and being rejected from graduate school?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Sorry. I… didn’t know? What is it you wish to opine over this time, the way a dog looked at you once?”

“No. The topic of conversation a lot of people romanticize over. I’m sure a nice lightly toned essay about it could make people laugh and change your mind.”

“Alright, well, what is it?”

“It may, or may not, have to do with… Christmas.”

“Oh, god. Come on. Really?

“Yes.”

“It’s so yesterday, though.”

“Actually last week.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Everybody says that.”

“What possibly could you bring to the discussion that hasn’t already been said a million times?”

“About the spirit, you know. How it goes from being a joyful, romantic holiday that could be appreciated by so many religious and non-religious to a cache of ingenuous hypocritical…”

"Wait… what? You can’t do that candidly. You see that Jon Stewart on the television? He could do it. He can do those funny faces and weird gestures. He’s perfect. A Jew with a sense of humor. An impeccable resume.”

“You don’t buy into that clown do you? I thought only adults whose  senses of humor hasn’t developed enjoy him.”

“I do. He had an author on last night. Very good. I think I’m going to buy his book.”

“I bet it was gripping and self-indulgent. So, should I draft something up, have you read it and then tell me if you like it?”

“No. Don’t even do that. Even if you make sense on the subject, you’ll sound like a religious dork with a strange sense of humor, hell-bent on getting his so-called Christian values revalued by a society ‘lost.’”

“You haven’t even read anything yet.”

“I don’t need to and don’t want to. In the event, while nearly impossible, that you’re brilliant writing, just so happens, to persuade me enough to buy into this Christmas essay I’ll know it shouldn’t be published even in your stupid blog.”

“ How can you rush to judgment so fast? You’re like all those people standing outside the Rhode Island state house trying to get the Holiday tree renamed.”

“Yea, I guess I am. Either way you suck.”

“Who are you anyway? Why am I asking you to write this anyway. You’re no editor. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“I’m your conscience.”

“My conscience would never, ever like Jon Stewart.”

“That’s the thing about Jon Stewart. Even though you don’t want to like him, you do. You know why? Remember twelve years ago? That’s you sitting in your dorm room laughing. Oh, and those faces he makes are adorable.”

“That was before he was political, though. Everybody knows everything changed when he went political. He’s like Eddie Murphy before kids movies. Why am I arguing with you anyway. Jon Stewart sucks and so do you.”

“Because you need me. Without me, you let caution fly to the wind. Grow up a little. Candidness is only fun to your friends because they wish they could say what they want like you do, but they have careers and family members that will never talk to them again if they said the things you have said. Besides, you’re not edgy anymore. You see that Dane Cook guy? He’s edgy… and hilarious.”

“You’re kidding me right?”

“Remember twelve years ago? That wasn’t me walking into Newbury Comics to pick up….”

“Alright, I get the point.”

“Are you giving up?”

“No.”

“Let me put it like this. Twelve years ago you loved Dane Cook, Jon Stewart, ska bands even, not to mention all sorts of other terrible things. Remember the meatloaf at the Iona College cafeteria? You used to grab seconds of that. You have Dane Cook jokes memorized. You’ve never memorized anything like that in your whole life.”

“That was some good meatloaf, man.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was just better than any other you ever had. My point is that the opinions you had twelve years ago are different than now. If you had candid conversation about Christmas today, it would be no different than it was twelve years ago, a hundred or two thousand; it’s never going to be a popular subject to go after. Some things change, but opinions on the way people act around Christmas time will never. Even if some miracle occurred, the second coming of Jesus, and he ascended on earth in peace, to see how we were doing, and you somehow got the opportunity to speak with him one-on-one, and you were to ask, ‘So, Jesus, what do you think about the way your birth is being celebrated these days?’ He’d likely say, ‘blah, isn’t there something else you want to talk about.’ It’s either boring, super religiously angled, not funny, or regurgitated. Unless you’re Jon Stewart.”

“True, I guess.”

“Wow, finally listening to your conscience. How does it feel?”

“Good I guess.”

“Now stop wearing sweat pants in public.”

“That’s not happening.”

“It was worth a try I guess.”

I’ll have the fish.

Let’s get something on the table right now: nobody enjoys the airport. I know surefire I don’t, and I know you don’t either.

You know how I know this? Because you’re human and have emotional repercussions to things that suck, airports being one of the many you constantly endure, get over and eventually move on.

But this isn’t about the many, many nocuous challenges airports pose to one’s medulla oblongata, this is about how one averts those situations with positivity. Above the clouds, there’s always sunshine, right?

By doing so, this will only produce the question of why, after all the love and affection, Townie could possibly still think airports blow.

“How could he? He says right here, point by point, why they’re tremendously awesome."

Well, by use of simple mathematics, you must conclude that if my affection equals a 90, then my dissatisfaction must be greater than 90. Probably around a 102.

(By the way: picture me writing this ten feet from my gate, surrounded by people with laptops.)

Anyway, a list:

1) I love airports because without airports the movie Airplane never becomes comic gold, cinematic glory. If you haven’t seen Airplane, don’t worry. Run over to Blockbuster, grab the tape and pop it in your VCR, because it’s old.

2) Airports have the same environment as a bathroom stall, without the heat-seaking stanky waft pervading your well-being. Nobody wants to talk to you unless it’s your best friend. You have to stay with your children. You can’t leave your baggage behind. By baggage I mean a laptop case or a steaming pile. Need more examples?

3) For cell-phone lacking degenerates like me, airports are one of the few places you can use a quarter to make a call home. Sure, it may take twenty quarters, but isn’t it worth it just for nostalgic purposes? For me, it has to be.

4) Dunkin versus Starbucks. Do I need to say more? Okay, fine. This is the only place where you literally get to see two mega-giants from the coffee world duke it out, injecting hot over-caffeinated goodness into your suckhole. East versus West. Tupac vs. Biggie. What to do? I chose to get my Pike Place roast from Starbucks with the other sophisticates, walk into line with the degenerates over at DunkieDoos and get an caloric megaboost in the form of a sausage-egg and chesse. You can actually taste the microwave in the eggs. MMM…

5)  Every airport has one convenience store that has one specific to the flavors of its local state. At that point you walk in to be proud, only to leave and say to yourself, “Wait, we have that?" You leave with $20 worth of stuff you can get if you weren’t too busy in your busy life to drive fifteen minutes. Someday, years ahead of time, you’ll see that can of New England clam chowder on sale in your local Stop and Shop for one tenth of what you paid at the airport’s novelty shop.

6) Acceptable racial profiling. I don’t know why this is a positive, or whether if it’s okay to say, or if it’ll deter readers, or family members, but hear me out. We ALL racially profile. I know when I was getting felt up by TFA officers a moment ago (smiling proudly might I add), people were saying to themselves, “What’s that white boy being checked for? Action figures? The keys to a BMW?” That’s racial profiling. I haven’t played with action figures for at least three years and I’ve never driven a BMW bigger than a matchbox car. Sure, racial profiling is unacceptable, but everyday racial profiling gets brushed aside. In Airports, racial profiling is not only used, but is readily out in the open. For some reason, you have to tip your cap to them on that.

7) So many people read. It’s amazing. You take away a television and throw a person in a situation where the only entertainment is reading and suddenly reading is cool again. Maybe the answer to illiteracy is right in front of us: airport terminals. Get me on the phone with the department of education!

Now, with all that good stuff out of the way, I can still defiantly state, airports suck.

Here’s the part of my blog where I ask a rhetorical question you never thought you’d ever be asked:

Do you really want to be that old lady in an airport with a tattoo on your ankle? You know, that rosary tattoo is not going to be rebellious and fab in the 2040’s. It’s going to look bad. Are you prepared for that? Are you accepting the way you look thirty years from now, saggy skin flapping below your cargo-capris, hanging over your pink Mickey Mouse socks? You know you’re not fooling your grandchildren, right? They know you were a skank back in high school.

Then, there’s this part, where I give a bunch of needless thoughts into your head directly from my head, only in an abbreviated way:

1) When in doubt of how to write something, go with lists.

2) That rumbling in my stomach definitely isn’t a serious case of violent diarrhea. It’s definitely something else. Definitely.

3) Diarrhea on a plane is definitely a good way to make friends with the back row.

4) I’m oft criticized for being too sarcastic. Why? Because when your baby goes godzilla near me, I reply with one of the following? “So cute”, “One of god’s children”, or “I hope to one day have children as beautiful as yours.” Sue me for seeing the positive side in every situation. I guess The Secret isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

5) Listen, I’m going to use “is” and “would” and “it’s” and all sorts of grammatical no-no’s in my blog. So long as people continue to throw misspellings in their company and product names. You know what I’m talking about Eazy Cleaners.

6) My worst habit isn’t smoking or drinking, it is, however, referring to children as “it” instead of him or her or he and she.

7) My mom likes my blog, but told me it reminds her of 60 Minutes correspondent Andy Rooney. I couldn’t be more happy and sad at the same time.

Off the Grid

Justin Townsend no longer has a cellphone and he would like to share why:

In Louis C.K.'s latest special "Hilarious" he said the greatest technological advancements are being wasted on the worst generation. This absolute truth includes me, and, for the most part, why I love C.K. Like the late George Carlin, he gets you to laugh and change your perspective on life.

With that said, before "Hilarious" I enjoyed having a cellphone. In some small way, I thought I was partaking in some generational achievement, the same way semi-half-breeding-Irish people feel when they cheers every year with a warm Guinness trying to set a world record at some "Irish" bar run by a guy named Delucchi.

C.K. spoke about being upset at a cellphone for not uploading a picture of Axl Rose within seconds. I was that guy. We're all that guy and it took one of my idols to make my own imperfections not only funny, but embarrassingly sad. I laughed on the outside, but cried on the inside.

I remember text messaging like it was yesterday (note: if I posted this on Tuesday, it would actually be yesterday). It was so cool yesterday, not it's kind of a turnoff.

Most movie scenes involving great dialogue over a cup of coffee now seem unrealistic. Say, if each side of the table was tapping the keys on their cellphone then maybe I'd be fixated on the plot more.

There isn't any huge advantage to having a cellphone besides its ability to multiply any douchey qualities in an individual. Back in the day, you only thought to yourself, "What is she wearing?" Now, you text your friend two feet away from your culprit, "WTF? white pants b4 memorial day? uh no."

You used to dread being at lunch with your friend from high school, awkwardly retorting with a sequence of "yea"s and "I know what you mean"s. Every now and again you throw in a "What's new?" even though you've said it four times already and have gotten the same answer each time. Now, you sit even more awkwardly, only retorting when the silence really dawns on you, while you text vehemently to your real friends to come and save you.

But they're conveniently not responding, even though, like, you totally know they have their phone attached to their, like, faces.

I stopped thinking cellphones as an asset, a convenince. When I think of convenience I think of being able to hop on over to the store a street away and get some syrup after making pancakes without keeping the key component in mind. That's convenience. With cellphones in that situation you call everyone you have in your phonebook to see if they can pick you up some while you watch reruns of celebrity rehab. That's not convenience, that's called being a lazy douche.

Even the inventor of the telephone himself, Mr. T-Mobile, pitied the invention.

Wait... Mr. T-Mobile didn't invent the telephone?

Sorry, that fun fact was this: even Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the phone, felt the telephone infringed on his work as a scientist and never put it in his study. Smart guy.

I also stopped thinking cellphones were a luxury. I don't want to sound preachy, but in the grand scheme of things, I'm nothing special. Having a top-notch phone doesn't make me any more luxurious than before. I'm still going to be the same curmudgeon no matter what, I'll just know that the Braves beat the Mets before you by six seconds.

And I know all the repurcusions of being without a cellphone; I've had a cellphone before. I act like I'm in my sixties, but I've actually grown up in this day-and-age. How many times have I used a cellphone for an emergency? Zero. How many times have I used it to check my fantasy baseball team? 10,000 times. I think my point is proven.

The other thing about emergencies is that I don't put myself in situations where there isn't anybody else around with a cellphone that can call. I understand the car accident situation: winding road, you lose control because you just saw Fast and the Furious Six, hit a tree. In that situation, I'm likely dead or my arms are completely immobile. Unless my flatulence learns how to dial, I'm likely still dead. Just do me a favor: don't start a memorial in my name benefiting all kids to have a cellphone in case of this situation.

The last point I want to make is that cellphones are a ripoff. I'd number crunch on you, but I won't. Let me just say that while you battle through the recession empty pocketed, this rags to riches gentleman will be at the Our Lady Queen of Martyrs Bingo dabbing flourenscent colors all the way to the bank.

Other thoughts on my mind that absolutely can't leave this room:
1) I like my barber because he carries more guns than yours. He has never asked me what I think of the haircut, as he knows he did a great job, as it took him 30 minutes. If I didn't like it I assume he'd likely trade the scissors for the handgun on his hip, or in his left sock, or his right, whichever.
2) Watching grass grow is literally every mid-forty male's dream.
4) Screw Three.
5) It just dawned on me: I havn't learned anything in a while.
6) If Lady Gaga is a fashion genius, I wonder what the next fashion genius will look like. I'm pushing for sports mascots.
7) Picking up the phone and not knowing who it is excites me.
8) I'm not one to say this, but you really have some problems. Have you tried not having so many?
9) It's been a good 90 years since anybody important was named Alexander.

Where’s the Cocked Beef? I mean, Corned. I’m cocked.

“Hey, did you hear? It’s St. Patrick’s Day! You’re supposed to be cocked you stupid asshole!”

This is the emphatic translation that goes through my head anytime somebody asks me what I’m doing on this stupid day. I’m not Irish, don’t look Irish and, in fact, I’ll do my best to try to never pretend being Irish, but everybody has to ask. 

Has anybody Irish ever been successful at anything, but making the thickest beer on earth?

SAT time/newsflash:

People getting drunk is to believing your Irish: Little children getting excited is to believing in Santa.

I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I don’t believe in Santa and neither should you.

Truth is, I don’t like St. Patrick’s Day for many reasons. Call me a party pooper, but nobody celebrating it has any clue who (St.)Patrick even is. Turns out, he’s not even a certifiable Saint! Ah! Imposter.

Nobody knows what’s so special about him either. Folklore is that he converted thousands of Irish retards using a shamrock to teach the holy trinity. Let me tell you something: it’s a very last resort when you start using the plants around you to teach somebody something, anything at all. But then again, this is the Irish.

Toy know what you look like to me? This -

That’s Korea. Not Ireland. I know, they look so much alike!

We should be celebrating (St.) William Wallace Day. That dude has almost the same accent, bigger attitude, better story (five Oscars anyone? Oh, don’t forget, Wallace died for his country.). We could all run around pretending to be Scottish soldiers, lobbing limbs off like crazy, and sleeping with pale chicks all day. Sounds fun to me.

Anyway, drink your thick beer, eat your salty meats, get bloated, puke on each other all you want, and have the absolute most diabolic farts tomorrow. I’m not wearing green, I’m not drinking green beer and I’m not pretending to be Irish at all.

I will however get drunk and possibly see you all out, per chance of seeing a good fist fight between two wannabe soccer hooligans, and possibly some old people making out. Just know when you see me, it’s not because I appreciate anything the Irish has ever done.

Because that list is short.

 

Question:

Why aren’t the Special Olympics televised? Wouldn’t that give a greater appreciation? Or are networks and all involved want to keep their little games to themselves? Or are they worried people will laugh? I’m not making fun, just asking. Debate if you will. Silently or otherwise.

 

(discression: I’m not cocked, as the title may say. I’m merely making a joke on this stupid, stupid day. God bless!)

The Older You Get, The More You Forget

How many times have you opened the newspaper to see a picture of a really old person there, with two of their kids behind them, a cake in front and a headline reading "Happy 100th Birthday!"?

Too many times, right?

You know why? Because one time is too many times.

The 100th Birthday picture/celebration is way overrated and has made me think about how much I don't want to be that old.

I want to make it to 99 and 364 days old and croak. Before that though, I want my kids, or whoever, to plan a big birthday party for me down in the hall downstairs from where I live in the highrise. I hope the photographer is a really charmer, god-loving person that takes his/her job really seriously and gets to know everyone, so that when he/she finds out the horrible news about not having to come in to work, they cry.

Because the 100th birthday celebration is not heartwarming to me. It's sad. Congradulations, you're really old. You've seen many, probably all of your friends in a casket at some point in life, some younger, some older. You've likely outlived your husband, most of your kids. At that age, all you're good for is shakily dealing cards and keeping your heartrate down during a really intense old movie that reminds you of when you could move your legs. At that age, you can't even blow out the candles. You over-jumpy, over-diagnosed ADHD grandchildren blow them out for you. What fun is that shit?

And let's face it, no matter what pills you take, there's no way sex is even remotely interesting at that age.

100 doesn't sound like a good time; it seems like an endurance challenge, The Eliminator, The Family Double Dare Final Dare. Even if they invented newer drugs that lengthen the average age to 114, I'd still opt to die before 100, that way there people will say, "He died way too early. He had so much more life left to live."

But knowing my sense of humor and the likely chance my kids inherit that sense of humor, they'll still prop me up in a chair and tape my eyes open just to get me into the newspaper somehow. Then say I'm dead.

Maybe this is a tad too morbid for most to want to think about, but this is just a smidgen of the thoughts that somehow roll into my skull during the day.


The leftover scrambled eggs:
1. You have GOT to watch the link above to the eliminator. The way the chick Koya falls consecutively is great. Add that with the post-eliminator interview with Hulk Hogan after and you have a solid viral video.
2. Chicken Parm is made with mozzerella, and not parmisan. I don't care what anyone says, that shit is stupid.
3. When it comes down to it, all Gatorade Propel tastes the same after one sip.
4. When I read one critic say The Road (movie) was "very depressing" I was confused. I thought it was an action movie and not about a boy and his father dying alongside each other.
5. There can't possibly be any more terribly unfunny jokes about the new KFC heartattack sandwich being said right now.
6. Does anybody else have a fantasy football league right now? Becuase I've been invited to about 30 already and I think I have time to fit one more in. By the way, I couldn't be any less interested in fantasy football.

Food for thought.

Today, let us talk lettuce, people.

Not your average conversation, I take it. I don't even like lettuce, but I'll riff about it. Sure.

Oh, I get it, you're wondering what I could say about lettuce that could be so enthralling and entertaining, right? Well, you may be right in thinking that, afterall, not many could pull off a discourse involving lettuce.

I came across the idea a while ago at a local bar while attending a trivia night. The question came up what food had been aptly renamed because of it's cool, crispy texture.

Not just lettuce, but Iceberg lettuce from what was previously titled Crispehead lettuce. I wondered to myself, that's an interesting renaming, so I looked it up.

Back in the 1930's this guy started sending shizerloads of this green business across the country, protected by ice on top. When the trucks came in, supposedly, people would yell, "The icebergs are here" a la Paul Rivere's famous phrase warning tea sipping of the Redcoats or British (which I still like to translate his words into modern Bostonian speak, "Hea come dose queers").

I hardly believe people couldn't wait to have this tasteless lettuce arrive at their doorstep, let alone have a nickname for it. So I got to wordering some more.

My conclusion is a conspiracy theory, but a theory nonetheless. I believe some sick bastard was talking some seriously ill will about lettuce and compared the crunchiness to the sound made when the Titanic first made impact with an iceberg. In his pretend words, I believe he said: "Every time, I bite I envision people sliding down the edge of the boat, ya know? But without the screaming and stuff."

After a while the phrase caught on, like all do. We call this guy "Wobbles" at Beef Barn, because of the way he walks. He's a big dude, so it's funny. It's even more funny when we call him it and 2he thinks we're calling him by his real name, which happens to be Bobby.

Now, granted, the guy that came up with Iceberg lettuce's name was probably knee slapping his way to the bank for a long time, but nowadays he's probably in a grave somewhere. Can't we rename this pathetically tasting part of our diets?

You have to admit, Crispehead isn't that bad in itself.


The forgotten part of my blog:
1. More food for thought: The difference between a western omelette and an eastern is peppers. Is that because peppers don't grow in the east or something? Or was somebody just too lazy to name it correctly?
2. Instead of saying pina coladas, I chose to say Pinas, which turned into a million puns involving the word penis.
4. screw 3.
5. When I see loud, giggly little girls, I think to myself, "Oh, dear god. That could be the next Ayiia from Real World 33 in Cancun."
6. On my run today I saw a guy from behind that was walking like a zombie. I balked at the opportunity to twist his head right off his shoulders.
7. Now that I think of it, Zombie movies are completely unrealistic. They move to slow, they're too weak to push their way out of their own six foot deep grave. Oh, and they're dead, and never coming back to life. Just a minor detail.
8. It's inevitable: every chick my age reads those Twilight novels, therefore I must condone the reading of them, else I be single forever.