Best damn soup ever.

So I thought I would share my culinary awesomeness with you. If you read carefully and follow my detailed instructions, maybe, just maaaybe you can make soup as awesome as I do. A lofty goal I know, but you’ll never achieve your dreams if you don’t try.

First step is to choose the most delicious and unhealthy ingredients on the face of the earth. This is not low carb, low fat or low flavor. This is balls out, artery clogging, heart attack inducing, slap your Mother slop -and in my opinion- is what makes the best food. So I picked a bunch of delicious stuff and tossed it in a pot. I’m actually getting fatter just typing about this soup.

Granted, I don’t make this type of stuff that often (I’d be 400 lbs if I did), but a group of us at work are having a “soup exchange”  tomorrow and I figure mine will probably be the best, and if it isn’t, everyone will have dropped dead from a heart attack before they get a chance to realize it wasn’t.

I have to mention that I just now blew my own mind by realizing that I’m such an office drone that I’m even participating in a “soup exchange” in the first place, and second, that I’m actually excited about it. I hate me.

Anyway, back to the ingredients.

 Butter, potatoes, cheese heavy whipping cream, onions, kielbasa, corn and a whole lotta love.

 Always make sure your knife is sharp. If you don’t own a good set of knives, get one. It makes chopping and dicing fun and will save a lot of time.

 Dice the crap out of your damn onions and sauté them in butter. Yes, butter. Delicious, fatty butter. Two sticks of it! Add some damn pepper too.

After cooking your onions down for 10-15 minutes, add your chopped kielbasa and cook for another 10 minutes or so.

Add your damned corn

Add your damned potatoes

DO NOT ADD THIS! Spotted dick has no business hanging around this recipe..

Add a bunch of this. It's sea salt and there’s nothing worse than under-salted, bland food!  Really, if you’ve even considered making this damn soup, salt is the last thing you need to worry about anyway, so dump that shit in there and remember, when cooking, measuring cups and teaspoons are for pussies.

Add your heavy whipping cream and 8 cups water. I think I put in 8 cups, but I’m not really sure. Just put some water in it. If you know your way around the kitchen, you'll know how much is enough.

Once it warms up and the damn potatoes are softening, start shredding that damn cheese into it and again, this isn’t a healthy recipe so man up and use the whole pound.

Once you get it all going, you can whisk in a bit of flour to thicken it up or add more water if it’s too thick and BAM! You have the best damn soup ever.

 Anyway, that’s about it. I guess you could substitute bacon or some kind of ham for the kielbasa, but I think the kielbasa adds a lot more flavor and who doesn’t like flavor?

 I’m going to go taste it now and hope it doesn’t suck.

Ha! Who Am I kidding?

Bon appetite!

Open mouth, insert foot.

For the most part, I try to keep my blog free of “adult” content and things that people might find offensive, but this morning, I was reminded of the most dreadfully uncomfortable situation I’ve ever seen, and I just had to share the story.

I will omit some names, as to protect the guilty and humiliated. Please keep in mind that this is a man story, the likes of which some of you may not be familiar.

Anyway…

A number of years ago, a large group of us guys took a trip up to South Shore, Lake Tahoe to celebrate the pending nuptials of my good buddy Dave, in other words, a bachelor party.

Before the drunken idiocy began, about twenty of us got together for a “gentleman’s dinner” at a very nice restaurant. All wearing our fancy suits and dressed to the nines. As the dinner progressed, the prime rib flowed like wine and the whisky flowed like, well, whisky and we all proceeded to get a bit hammered.

At one point, my buddy –we’ll call him Lenny- decided it would be fun to share a topless picture he had on his phone…of his girlfriend, who was quite pregnant and, well, let’s say she was “more endowed” than usual.

As “Lenny’s pregnant girlfriend’s boob picture is being passed around the table, the comments are flying “Great rack, dude!” or “Wow, I had no idea she was so stacked!”

Of course, most of us were thinking “Why the hell is he passing this picture around?” but if you know Lenny, the fact that he was still wearing pants was more surprising than his passing around a picture of his girlfriend's boobs was.

Then the picture gets to “Jim”, one of the gentlemen, who, while a friend of the groom, didn’t know Lenny or many other people at the table and also didn't know that the picture was of Lenny's girlfriend.

Jim says –quite loudly I might add- “Wow! Nice rack, but her face looks like a train wreck!”!” To which Lenny replies

“That’s my girlfriend…”

Crickets….

I wonder if Lenny remembers this? I wonder if Jim does?

Superbowl Sunday

I’m not really a sports fan. I enjoy napping on the couch during a football game as much as the next guy, but rarely spend the day watching football, baseball or any other sport (besides the Tour de France, but that’s not really a sport, is it?)

Every year when the Superbowl comes around, I kind of chuckle inside. Partly because the spectacle of it all, but mostly because the best adjective the NFL could come up with for the biggest, most ultimate, end all, be all sporting event in the world is “Super.”

Super? Really?

They may as well have just called it the Very Good bowl. It’s like they didn’t even try.

What’s funny is that the NFL has trademarked this retarded name and broadcasters and other media sources can’t even say it without the risk of getting sued.

In baseball they have the World Series, which I think really expresses the importance of the game(s). Hockey has the Stanley Cup, which I think is a cool name.

I’m not saying that I can come up with a better name, hell,  I’m just a normal Joe that barely even likes sports, but if really pressed, probably could come up with a better name.

They should call it the Fabulousbowl, Most Awesomest Bowl Game Ever Bowl or the IDon'tGiveAShitandWillEatTooMuchandRegretItTomorrowBowl.

Maybe the NFL could hire the guy that names all the college bowls to come up with a new name for it.

I think the Orange Bowl is a good one, because it reminds me of Tang, and I really like Tang a lot. I also dig the Tostitos bowl, because it’s Nacho-centric, and who doesn’t love nachos? The Rose Bowl, while somewhat gay, is even a better name.

I once saw a show called the Glutton Bowl, it was a ridiculous eating contest that was pretty cool.

Even though it has a stupid name, it’s still a big deal and millions of people will be getting together to enjoy the day. Some will watch the game and scream and cheer for their teams. Most, I think, will enjoy the excuse to party on a Sunday with a lot of people they don’t see but once a year, play football in the street (and have sore arms on Monday because they only toss a football once a year) and spend some quality time with friends and family.

Regardless of the name of the game, the annual Superbowl party will be a good time as always.

Daveski will make his famous chicken wings, Tim will get drunk and deep fry a turkey, Rhonda will be the life of the party, Marianne will make her strange, mysterious dips that nobody actually likes, but eats anyway because we all love Marianne and we'll all pay more attention to the commercials than we do they game.

The jello shots will flow like wine and halftime street football game will be played and we'll all have a super time, which, I guess, is all that really matters.

Oh, and go Packers!

Peace!

140.6

Yesterday, I finally got around to going to Fleet Feet and dropping $2 on the decal I’ve been longing for since November.

It’s a white oval with a 140.6 in the middle of it.

It doesn’t say anything really. Just a number, but anyone who knows what that number means, knows that that little decal actually says quite a lot.

Back before I did an Ironman, I would see random cars and trucks, here and there with 140.6 decals and I have to admit, I was jealous.

I was jealous of the kind of person that could do an Ironman, someone with drive, discipline, willpower, control, grit, strength and determination. Many of the things I’ve always thought I lacked.

Well, I guess I have a bit of all those things…

I would sometimes drive to the trail to run, so I didn’t have to run all the way to the trail to run.

I had enough discipline to not smoke while I was running.

I had the willpower to not stuff my face with pizza and cheeseburgers until after my workouts.

I had enough control not to poop my pants. Not even once (although I came close a time or two).

I had grit….well, actually, I don’t know that I had any grit. 

Determination? Well yeah, I had a lot of that.

So I'm gonna drive around in my car with my 140.6 sticker. Maybe throwing  a “wassup” head nod to someone else that has one. Maybe some aspiring Ironman will see my fat ass in the car and think “if he can do it, I can do it.

Maybe they’ll think I’m driven, determined, and all those other things people think Ironmans are.

Maybe they’ll just flip me off because I drive like an asshole.

I got nuthin'.

So I’m sitting here trying to think about what to blog about and I honestly can’t think of a damn thing.

I have Bleu “searching for the Satellites" playing in the background (which is one of the most amazing songs ever) and I am reminded that my right tweeter is out, so I have the left speaker pointing at me and I can’t tell the difference.

I should probably get around to updating my home theater system one of thee days.

I could blog about my dog, Tex, but he’s not really doing anything right now besides licking where his balls used to be.

I wonder if he misses them. I know I would.

I could blog about work, but a lot of the people I work with read this, plus, who the hell wants to read about my day at work? It's legal invoicing for God's sake.

I could write about Cube Girl, the ridiculously annoying nerd girl that sits next to me at work, but then she may read this and misconstrue every word and twist it into some crazy love letter to her, so I don’t think I’ll do that. That would make going to work tomorrow morning weird.

I could write about politics, but I don’t know anything about them and would probably sound more stupider than I already do when trying to talk about “the health care reformer” and the “Tea Party.”

I could write about tea parties. I’ve never been to one, but I’m sure they’re nice. Meh, I don’t have one of those Sunday Church hats anyway.

I miss Dewey, but I already blogged about that and I don’t feel like crying right now.

I could blog about my girlfriend, but then she would know just how crazy I really am about her, and we wouldn't want that.

I think I’ll just wait until something good comes up.

*sigh*

Nobody likes to buy a plunger

Where did you get your plunger I ask?

Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I bought a plunger. It’s seems to be one of those things you just kind of always have. Like cinnamon or a garden hose or a Ken doll collection.

 Now that I think about it, I can say with confidence that I have never bought a plunger and I can say with a great degree of certainty that my (ex) wife never bought one either, yet there it sets, for the most part, unused, but ready for action 24/7.

The only reason I’m even thinking about the mystery of the plunger at all is because I was at the store earlier and the guy in front of me felt it necessary to let the cashier –as well as anyone else within earshot- know that he had done gone and stopped up his toilet again. 

Hell, I’m sheepish when I have to buy toilet paper at the store for God's sake, and here's this guy shouting it from the rooftop like a proud Poppa. 

Nobody wants hear about why you're buying a plunger.We just want to stare at the floor and pretend we're not thinking about why you need to buy a new plunger.

But there he was, proud as a peach and telling the whole world about his porcelain plight.

Now I’m suddenly wondering, if he stopped it up again, where the hell is the plunger he used last time?

Does this guy seriously clog the john so often that he wore out his last plunger? Did he lose it? Maybe lend it to a buddy last Thanksgiving and forget to get it back?

What's even worse is that he was buying his new -and much needed- plunger at the Dollar Store. Maybe that's where he got his last one and I just happened to witness a toilet situation this guy has been dealing with for months and this is his fifth plunger trip.

Maybe for most people, a $1 plunger would do the trick, but I don't think that's the case with this guy. He should probably head over to The Home Depot and get an industrial one (do they make those?)

 Anyway, this is by far the most disgusting thing I have ever blogged about and hopefully, it will stay that way.

Now I don't know what's more embarrassing, the fact that I've spent the last 30 minutes blogging about a guy buying a plunger at the dollar store, or that I have such a boring life that a guy buying a plunger at the dollar store is all I have to blog about.

Peace!

You Have Entered the Twilight Zone

The other day, as I flipped through the channels, I stumbled across a Twilight Zone marathon.

I instantly parked my ass on the couch and got lost in another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.

Man, I hadn’t heard that monologue since I was a kid.

The Twilight Zone was my old man’s favorite show and I remember so many nights, when I was just a kid, staying up late and watching it with him. Half the time I was huddled on the couch scared out of my pants with my hands over my eyes and him making fun of me, but boy did I love watching that show and boy did I like spending time with Dad.

So, over the New Year's weekend, for I don’t know how many hours, I just sat and completely spaced out. Lost, not only in that crazy dimension, but in memories. Was it hours and hours of wasted time? I don’t think so, because not only was I entertained by the horrendous acting, ridiculous twists, Rod Serling’s genius and the overall naiveté of the late 50’s/early 60’s, but I was brought back to my childhood that, while full of lots of bad times, had just as many (if not more) good times that I don't really think about as often as I should.

I may not sit huddled and scared on the couch anymore, peeking through the cracks between the fingers that once covered my face, nor do I sit wondering if I’m really a doll in some space alien’s playroom. I sit and enjoy every moment and every memory that it brings back, because that’s all I have left (well that and 9 more episodes on the DVR)

Now if only I could find a Benny Hill marathon…

Miss you, Dad.