Exodus Part 2

Shortly after the release of Frankenberry, General Mills released a blueberry cereal appropriately titled Boo Berry in 1973. That's him up there. Isn't his little hat just the cutest little thing? Way back then, they didn't even call them marshmallows they called them "sweeties" who knows, maybe back then they didn't actually qualify as marshmallows. Today I can vouch for them that they are indeed marshmallows. Boo Berry's voice sounded Peter Lorre ish. He (the cereal) is also referenced in an episode of Family Guy when Peter sees Sandy Duncan in a grocery store in the cereal aisle he says to her "Get the Boo Berry." Although Frankenberry turns the milk pink this cereal has the distinction of turning you mouth a very lovely shade of blue!

Recipe for Booberry Breakfast Shake--
A great Booster drink for the morning. Ingredients:1 cup milk 1 cup frozen unsweetened blueberries 1/2 cup Booberry cereal 1/2 banana
Preparation Instructions:
1. Place all ingredients in blender, cover.
2. Blend on high for 30 seconds until blended.
3. Pour into large glass and serve.

Don't tell me this blog ain't informative!

Exodus

In 1971 Frankenberry shambled onto breakfast tables everywhere. Frankenberry is a strawberry flavored cereal whose mascot character's voice sounds similar to that of Boris Karloff. Frankenberry is featured often on the animated television show Family Guy. Conan O'Brien references the cereal on his talk show and includes it as one of his favorite cereals because it is the only cereal that turn the milk pink. In Futurama, Kif proclaims to Amy that he will make her perfume of Lilac, Jasmine, and Frankenberry. In an episode of Robot Chicken Frankenberry is a guest judge on their version on American Idol aptly called Zombie Idol. Although not widely available today, it is available around this time of year. In the Midwest it is available in Super WalMarts year round. Some Target stores also supposedly carry it almost year round as well. All I know is right now Acme has it and it's on sale 2 for 5 dollars. Go crazy!

Born To Run

Well now that summer is officially over (Thank God, I don't think I could handle another heat wave induced case of chaffing.) it can only mean one thing... it's my most favoritest time of the year! Halloweenie baby. Yeah, yeah, I know it's not even October yet but I think of Halloween as a big holiday, even bigger than Christmas. So what better way to celebrate the beginning of the Weenie season than with two of the long forgotten favorites in the cereal world. It has been 13 years since Yummy Mummy has graced the breakfast tables worldwide. General Mills discontinued it for poor sales and I'm briging it back. At least here on my blog that is. Actually Yummy Mummy was a replacement for

That's right, before Yummy Mummy there was Fruit Brute. The fruity werewolf cereal debuted in 1974, it didn't do so well so it became the first Halloween based cereal to make it's way to the breakfast graveyard in 1983. Well what do you expect it had lime flavored marshmallows for Christ's sake. Yummy Mummy cam out in 1988. They did learn their lesson, a little, (General Mills I'm talking about. Try to keep up please!) at least when they revamped the cereal they made the marshmallows vanilla flavored. Although it was the first cereal in the monster related cereals to be discontinued it actually has been kept alive, sort of. In Reservoir Dogs, Mr. Orange clearly has a box of Fruit Brute in his apartment. Quentin Tarantino was such a big fan of the cereal he also used a box of it (possibly the same box from Reservoir Dogs, who knows?) in a scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent is talking on the cell phone to his drug dealer Lance (played by John Travolta and Eric Stoltz, respectively). So, long gone is our fruity cereal friend who stalked the night in search of the flavor of FROOOOOOOOOOOT.

Grandma goes toodle huntin'

Yeah you go Grandma ... but stay the hell away from my toodles!

The Greater Good

Let’s face it, work sucks. I’m a working man, I’ve been at the bottom of the ladder, I've been close to the top, I know what it’s like. Don’t be fooled by claims that a company is like a family. A company is like a prison, and they’re trying to make you the bitch. From now to back before the industrial revolution working men (and women) have been exploited for company profits. No matter what your human resources manager claims, you’re nothing but a cog in the machine. But don’t lose your head and start smarting off to your boss. Confrontation is not an option, you can be fired and replaced in a day. Just because your company treats you like shit is no reason for you to be unemployed. Why give up your job when you can turn the tables, fuck things up and get paid for it? There are other ways to fight back. Subtle insubordination is an art form. Don’t be exploited, be the exploiter. With that in mind, I’ve thought up a few simple ideas on how to get along in the workplace.

Number 1: A Probationary Period is Like A Warranty: A lot of places hire an employee with a few months of ‘probationary period’. That means they can fire you for any reason within those first few months. This is the ‘ass kissing’ period. Do whatever it takes to keep your boss happy. If you have a hearing problem, or bad eyesight, now is NOT the time to tell them. Once those three months are up, then it’s time to fuck around. It’s all easy from here, just don’t give them a definite reason to fire you and you’re set.

Number 2: Walk, Don’t Run: This one is a no-brainer. Running is for suckers, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. If your boss gives you shit for not working fast enough, explain that you have an 8 hour shift to endure, and the most efficient way to do it is to work at a steady pace. Faking old injuries comes in handy here too. Having a bad back can save you a truck load of trouble.

Number 3: Play Dumb: Usually the company thinks you’re an idiot anyways, otherwise they’d be paying you a hell of a lot more. If you’re smarter than your boss thinks you are, this can easily be used to your advantage. Don’t be fooled, proving that you’re smarter does not lead to promotions, no matter what they told you in the job interview. You should never, ever admit to knowingly doing something wrong, but if you’re boss does catch you red handed, claim ignorance. It may not hold up in court, but it’s your best bet when trying to wiggle out of a jam. Furthermore, if you’re stuck in front of the human resources dude, and he’s telling you it was funny how you offered your “Impaler” to the girl at the front desk, or that he understood why you pocketed 500 dollars from the company register, continue to claim you have no idea what he’s talking about. He may act like he’s your best friend, but all he’s trying to do is get you to own up. Remember, no confession, no case.

Number 4: Know Your Terrain: Most working environments have little things you can exploit. The manager can’t be everywhere at once, punch cards aren’t always monitored carefully, some working areas are shit for communication. If you work in a large area, find out where the manager is, and once you’re out of sight feel free to goof off. Find out how to abuse the system. Want an example? Unscheduled breaks are a luxury that can be enjoyed in any workplace, if you know how to do it right.

Number 5: Bathroom Breaks are a Right, Not a Privilege: I don’t care what kind of asshole you have for a boss, he can’t fire you for using the can. People who crap on their breaks are suckers, there’s nothing like taking a dump on company time. Bring a hand-held video game with you if you like. Handled smoothly you can last 20 minutes sitting on the crapper, even if you don’t have to go. If you’re feeling cocky, you can do it multiple times and claim you have diarrhea. Then, in addition to pissing away (no pun intended) anywhere from 20-40 minutes on the can, you can claim illness and move on to number 6.

Number 6: Take Advantage of First Aid: Often company policy is that if you sustain any injury, you go immediately to the first aid room. And that does mean ANY injury, right down to a paper cut. The rationale is that it will get you used to reporting accidents, and also the injury might be more serious than you think. So next time you’re bored, take out your pen knife and draw a drop of blood from your pinky finger. Then you can begin the long, slow walk to the first aid room, stand around and wait while the attendant is summoned, and then you can sit and chat while he cleans, disinfects, and bandages your little ‘red badge of courage.’ Then enjoy the long, slow walk back to your station. Handled smoothly, this should use up another 20 minutes.

That should be enough to get you started. Once you put your mind to it, you should be able to find plenty of your own little tricks. Every job is different, but there are always loopholes. You might lose that 10 cent/hour raise you were promised, but you should be able to gain a few hundred bucks worth of stolen time. And don’t worry if your boss gets pissed. Remember, you’re just doing your job.

Do No Harm

"Hello, my name is Klaus, I'm a manager at Rustler's and I wanted you to come in for an interview."

That was how it started. I was fresh off my seventeenth birthday and was trying to afford both gas and drug money in the spring of '85. Every spare moment was used filling out job applications. In a surprising fact, Rustler was not the first interview I went on. The day before I received the call from Klaus, I was invited to come and interview for a job at McDonald's. So I went to the interview at MickeyDee's and the following day I had set up my interview for Rustler Steak House. Now beggars can't be choosers and I had already accepted a job at McDonald's the previous day, but I figured "What the heck? Just go and see what happens." Besides I had never actually spoken to someone named Klaus, it could have been fun.

The next day I drove to Marlton and parked "The Stang" (before it got the most awesomest paint job, at the time it was brown, it would soon be "Hell Black". That was the name of the paint. It was of course black but when you got up close to it there was red flecks in it. Way cool. But I digress. I interviewed and he offered me a job. Now here was my first exposure to the business world and I was suddenly a commodity that was in high demand. How the hell did that happen? Yeah, I know, 17 year olds looking for a minimum wage part time job are so hard to find. Now I had to make a decision. It was actually a "no brainer" Rustler was only a few miles down the street, not even 6 to be exact. I think. McDonald's was in Voorhees, which was near where I went to school and thought it would be cool to be able to leave school and go right to work. My first schedule I was given for McD's were all 6-11 shifts. I was done school at 2:15, what the frigg? I told the manager when I interviewed it would be good if I could get like 3:00 shifts since leaving school and driving home and then driving back only to work five hours and drive back home again. Shit, all my money would be spent on gas alone. Seemed kinda pointless as well as weedless.

On the other hand... Klaus, who after conferring with his boss (who happened to be Cindy Johnson, later to be Cindy Johnson Barr, and a very close friend for many years) said I was hired at Rustler and could I come in for my training. I asked him what was my schedule. He said he could give me between 20 and thirty hours a week usually 3-9 or 4-10 shifts.

We have a winner!

So the rest is history. But I often wonder what it would have been like if I had worked at the golden arches instead? Considering I met my best friend working at Rustler's and even though time has taken away some of the innocence and naivete of that seventeen year old man (boy?) it has given me lasting memories, when the memory works. A lifetime of laughter, fun, tears, love, and somewhere out there is someone who knows why I said "Burma". All in all, I'd say it was a good choice.

Deus Ex Machina

I'm tired of all these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane.- Samuel L. Jackson

The cast was all there - the unnaturally beautiful blonde girl who doesn't realize she's hot. The drunk frat boy. Two surly wannabe white gangstas in sideways baseball caps. Prostitots (you know, the preteen little ho's in training). A row full of computer geeks. Another row full of high school kids. And there, front and center, a father and his seven year old son. We were dug in and armed to the teeth with Twizzlers and popcorn and soda and beer, yeah one of the guys I work with actually was able to sneak some in. It was opening night for the most highly anticipated movie of the summer: Snakes on a Plane.

The trailers were well picked: Beer Fest, a few thrillers, Tenacious D the Movie, something else that looked hilarious but I've forgotten... we all forgot the trailers as soon as the logo popped up on the screen. The room went apeshit. Popcorn flew into the air like dirt from an explosion, and fifty voices screamed "Snakes on a Plane, motherfucker!" It was on.
The girls flinched as the Chinese man beat the shit out of the prosecutor. They held their breaths as the Chinese Mob broke into that guy's apartment - then Samuel L. Jackson came on the screen, and the theater filled with that rushing water sound of vaginas wetting in unison. I put my feet on the back of the seat in front of me in case any puddles washed over the floor.

A plot twist, an interrogation, a cut scene... and then the first snake. The women watched in horror as the snake did what randy snakes do to buxom female extras in horror flicks. My eyes bounced from supple bosom to the father and seven year old son. Father was faking prudish offense; son's breathing had stopped as his pupils dilated. The drunk frat boy yelled; I yelled; we all yelled, for more, more, more! The computer geeks screamed Hardcore! and one of them excused himself to the bathroom. It was the first snake attack of the movie; everyone with illicit booze downed a long, comforting swallow.

The rest of the movie played out as one would expect: the normal cast of character actors died in sadistically pleasant ways - snakebites, mainly - as Jackson ran back and forth with all manner of weapons. The overtly gay steward dodged a cobra; and a coral snake; and more snakes. The fat, elderly, and unimportant-looking actors didn't fare so well. At every death, we cheered; at every strike, we drank. Gay Steward put a snake in a microwave; we chanted "Two More Minutes!" It was very Rocky Horror, only we were mocking and cheering and heckling an angry black man beset by snakes on a plane.

Somewhere between the fat Hawaiian woman getting a snake up her dress and the point where the hypochondriac gets smashed by a runaway drink cart, the father and son got up and ran out of the theater. It's like they couldn't take buxom breasts, an anaconda eating a businessman, Samuel L. Jackson going off on tirades, or the stress of watching two dozen overpaid actors shoot their serious-drama careers in the face. We loved it; there were standing ovations every time any character used the phrase "snakes on a plane". When the FBI raided the rare snake guy's ranch, there arose the un-orchestrated call "snakes in a barn!" Possible sequel, that is.

Every cheap thrill moment - snakes attacking the camera from out of nowhere - the Prostitots shrieked. They squirmed, and then looked accusatorily back and forth as if to suggest that the noise and the motion had come from one of their twelve year old friends and not themselves. Every gratuitous death, the guys cheered. Popcorn flew at inappropriate times. People stepped on the actors' lines, heckling the screen, screaming what they thought were spoilers - and they were right more often than not. These only added to the experience. They were - we were - movie hooligans turned loose with alcohol and sticky candy and the summer's worst movie on the screen... and it was beautiful.

See that movie. It's going to be huge - a cult movie forged in the mainstream. And that's good for everyone. And while you're there, check the back row, I might be there, naked under a trench coat.

lizard attack

Don't know if you all have seen this before but it is one of the best reactions I have ever seen. I laughed my ass off. Keep an eye on the borrom left hand corner to watch the small lizard (gecko maybe?) jump on the anchor. Then the fun begins!

Numbers

Mount Vesuvius of Ass (This story takes place in the not too distant past, but was something I needed to share with you all. You'll thank me later. Or not.)

Twenty-one courses.

That's how much food was still in me, with no relief in sight. Every five hours I was hungry again, and every five hours I ate another few courses. I finally ran out of food, so I ambled down to the grocery store. The obvious solutions stared me in the face: fruit juice, Ex-Lax, People Magazine - interminable drivel about celebrity couples could make any man shit himself. But instead of those weapons, of whose magical properties I've availed myself for many a practical joke, I wandered the aisles aimlessly seeking salvation.

The usual suspects were straight out: meat, cheese, bread, the staples of my American diet. They haven't helped for the last twenty-one courses, and only a fool would expect them to help now. There are dairy farmers who haven't shat (to conjugate a verb) since the '60s. I needed something surefire, something like... vegetables. But not vegetables.

Ha! The tea section, straight ahead, and I made a break for the endcap display. Hippies are always farting, up and down the street farting like they mix their granola with biodiesel, and where there's smoke there's fire. And hippies drink tea. It was clearly the ideal way to eat vegetables: tea leaves are leaves after all, and leaves are vegetables, so boil the shit out of them and slurp the juice, 'cause that's the American way. And caffeine is both a diuretic and an expectorant, so go for the gonzo.

There were boxes upon boxes, boxes containing boxes of boxes and sleeves of various shapes, all coddling and protecting their little white pouches of shredded plants like a middle school kid with his first dime bag. I scanned the names: Mandarin Orange Spice, with the picture of an oriental woman made up like a Geisha. Earl Grey, who I swear was a math teacher somewhere in my childhood. Lemon, and Lemon Zing, the difference being about a dollar a box and some uninspired marketing. Then, Morning Thunder, with a picture of an angry buffalo blowing steam out of its nose and "Contains Caffeine" in thirty-point font. That's the ticket - four bucks a box, "contains twenty bags." Oh hell yeah.

I brought it home and prepared for the main event, gathering the candles from the bedroom and the FHM off the couch, moving them into the bathroom. I arranged it meticulously - as for once I had the leisure of infinite time - and went back to boil a pot full of water. The tea leaves were brown. Dark brown, like they had been stained with the same color that painted that buffalo, and I wondered if buffalo hair was some secret ingredient. Hippies can't be trusted. It said to let the bags steep for one or two minutes, but owing the importance of the situation and utter lack of urgency, I dumped in all twenty and left them to boil for about half an hour. When I came back the pot was bubbling like a cauldron and frothing for some reason I don't understand, filled overfull with some foul concoction more ink than water and so dark I couldn't even see it. It sucked in all the light in the room, and I felt just a little bit intimidated as I cautiously turned the heat off and tried to stir. It groaned angrily and blew steam from the top of the pot. I let it sit for awhile as I finished preparations - I made a bowl of baked beans, as insurance, and set a notebook and pen on the floor in case I needed to record my final moments of agony before dying in a methane supernova.

The stage was set, the tea lukewarm and threatening, and my nerve was stone. I marched in there with the tea in one hand and the Philadelphia Inquirer in the other, sat down, and proceeded to drink that entire eight cup percolator of Morning Thunder poison. I read through the headlines about the oil situation, the ones about Iraq and political appointments, looking in vain for any word that would suggest Michael Bolton had been lost at sea in a tragic rowboat-and-concrete accident, and cast the paper aside in disgust. The FHM was calling, so I bent forward to pick it up off the floor, and something magic happened in those ten degrees. My o-ring stretched as wide as the Big Dig and something resembling a PaveWay guided bomb fell to earth. It could have scared hell out of an elephant.

It was followed by a series of anal explosions I can only liken to the fiery death we rained on the Taliban in November 2001; after it was done, the displaced air rushed back into the room, blowing out the candles and leaving me lurching and jerking in darkness.

Ladies, I still have no idea what childbirth feels like, but you have no concept either about what I went through for the next forty-five minutes. Every time I moved, every angle and position, every breath, every cough, pulled something loose from somewhere inside of me until I was shitting food I had not even eaten yet. Somewhere in my colon is a little black hole that decided for whatever reason to reverse its gravity and expel matter heretofore unintroduced to our poor planet.

I discovered the limits of courtesy flushing, the point at which the water runs continuously and the toilet paper unfurls like the tail of a speeding comet. There came a point where I was detached from my own ordeal, where the water and the paper and the shit rushed together through the darkness and I felt but a bystander to my own fate. The toilet paper ran out and I groped crazily for the newspaper, ripping the pages as I approached the eye of the shitstorm.
Had I the foresight to put my camera in that room, it could have sat on a tripod and snapped until the memory card was full and perhaps captured that elusive "most offensive photograph" as fitting epitaph to our decadent age. Something tells me that wiping my ass with a headline about world hunger, surrounded by half-burnt candles with two months' worth of calories shooting down the yawning porcelain hole would have come pretty close.

I didn't know the extent of the damage, and couldn't feel anything below my waist for an hour after the onset. The clouds still rumbled, but like lightning, it's not dangerous until it shoots for the ground. So there I laid, curled on my side, naked between shirt and shoes at the edge of destruction, glowing in the computers faint blue light, softly weeping.

...In Translation

Relationship Shortcuts

As I've said before, with most problems in life there are easy solutions. A girl I work with talked to me the other day, and gave me tips on how to get in good with the ladies. She made it all sound so complicated, but if you follow my methods, you'll realize it's all really quite simple. The listed tips are what she said. I give you my easy solutions.

Tip #1: Bragging about your sexual abilities gets you nowhere. I'd sooner believe what my friends say about how good a guy is, than what the guy says himself.

Easy Solution: Bribe her friends.

Tip #2: I like a guy who's funny, not perverted.

Easy Solution: Get her high, so she'll laugh at anything.

Tip #3: When you're going to make love to a girl, you have to make an effort to get her in the mood.

Easy Solution: Alcohol

Tip #4: I like a guy who's well read, who understands Shakespeare, Dickens, Orwell, Marx, Weber, Rousseau, Sophocles, etc.

Easy Solution: Coles Notes, Cliff Notes, Sparknotes, or something similar

Tip #5: I want a man who understands my emotions, appreciates inner beauty, has a sense of fashion, a sense of class, knows why I cry during movies... blah blah blah.

Easy Solution: Have a gay friend on speed dial.

Tip #6: Let's be honest, size really does matter.

Easy Solution: On the pretext of being kinky, or to enhance her sexual sensations, have her wear a blindfold before you engage in doing the deed. Then break out a warm cucumber. Note: if she's a pretty loose whore, you might need to use a watermelon instead.

Tip #7: I like a man who respects my independence, who can trust me to go out for a night with just the girls.

Easy Solution: Given girls who are pissed off at their boyfriends are the easiest girls to pick up at the bar, and given also that girls get pissed off at even the smallest things and grumble about them for weeks on end, we can conclude that the second your girl is out of your sight she'll be on top of another guy's dick. So there are three solutions.

A. Every time she asks to go out, slug her a few times. Eventually she'll stop asking. (You could try it but I don't recommend it a lot.)

B. Watch her like a hawk, read her diary, interrogate her friends, hire a private investigator, etc.

C. Since you're girlfriend will probably one day cheat on you, understand that this gives you the freedom to have sex with pretty much any girl who catches your eye. On the off chance that she's not cheating, what she doesn't know won't hurt her.

Tip #8: You need to respect the sexual needs of a woman. There have been times when I've told a man he can make out with me, but my pants are going to stay on all night.

Easy Solution:The last time I checked, she can still give a blowjob with her pants on.

Tip #9: Sometimes you might be watching a show you like during the same time a show she likes comes on. Let her have the remote.

Easy Solution: Two TV's in separate rooms.

Tip #10: Relationships are tough, they involve trust, sacrifice, mutual respect, and the willingness to support your loved one when they're down.
Easy Solution: Dump her sorry ass and hire a hooker.