floorpie

Ghetto-sghetti

.: pasta, preferably spaghetti. alternately an amalgam of whatever is handy
.: 1/8-1/4 jar leftover spaghetti sauce
.: salsa (optional)
.: parmesan (optional)

Heat one pot water on high heat to a rolling boil. While water is increasing entropy, shake cold spaghetti sauce into single-serving sized bowl. Add salsa to taste and set aside mixture.

When water begins to boil, cook pasta as per package directions, using (for spaghetti) a bundle of roughly the diameter of a quarter. For angel hair, choose slightly smaller coins; perhaps an over-sized nickel or something from Spain. In the case of elbow macaroni, penne, farfale and the like use own discretion with three loose fistfuls as a jumping off point

Sprinkle copious amounts of parmesan over spaghetti sauce and set aside.

Drain pasta when cooking is completed. Pour pasta over sauce/cheese mixture. With fork, fold-in pasta into sauce. Mix well. Serve luke-warm.

Have you had the Altoids Tangerine Sours, yet? I have no idea if they actually freshen my breath, but damn they taste good.

This post brought to you by Callard & Bowser’s® Altoids®, makers of the Curiously Strong Mint™. All rights reserved. Any use or distribution of this post without express written consent from Callard & Bowser® and floorpie.net™ is punishable by death and a $3 fine

sigh

I was just channel-surfing and happened to catch a hunter take out a turkey on ESPN2. What’s up with that? He was giggling like a maniac when he came up on it, stroking its dead feathers, checking out its dead claws, admiring its dead girth. He had this to say about his accomplishment:

Well he was just coming down here out of the woods. He’s alone and lonely, and looking for love… *looks directly in camera and winks* and baby, I’m a lover. *maniacal laughter continues*

I’ve never understood hunting. Or rather, I’ve understood it in the academic sense, but I’ve never been interested in hunting down another living creature with an overwhelmingly unfair advantage. So, for me it’s odd to see a grown-man actually giggling over a dead animal, and recounting his kill in a fervor of rich description.

Kissing the tukey’s foot when he hoisted it over his shoulder was a nice touch, too, by the way.

I’m going to Victoria, BC (Canada) on Thursday; and Austin, Texas (USA) Monday. Not bad for an unemployed guy, I think.

0623 hours

Why don’t alarm clocks come with 24-hour time (military time) displays like watches do?

Ladies and gentlemen, The President of the United States:

*crowd boo* Ladies and gentlemen, America stands committed to the further destruction and violent ambitions, including my own, to kill squandered lives on a massive scale. We must never again talk “law of morality” in conflict. So that, without peace, the world will be defended by, above all, the United States. *burp*

Hear the audio clip

(link via erica)

How do I get out of here?!

Observation

In those instances where ADG and I stay together, she having a job necessitates such ignominious things as “alarms” and “showers” and exclamations like “I’m late for work”. I’ve participated in these things more as an observer than an actual participant; but, I’ve still had to actually get up and start my day (such as it is) at those early hours. For me, this hasn’t been a problem at all, and I’ve kind of casually observed ADG’s stress in these matters with some bemusement.

“What’s the rush?” I think to myself Just take it easy, maaaaan…it ain’t no thang.” (keep in mind that I’ve been unemployed for some 10 months now, and have an appropriately scant recognition of the “real” world.)

This morning, however, I got a taste of reality. This morning I had an interview at, *gasp*, 9AM! I had to get up at 8… EIGHT! And woe my weary head, how early that suddenly was! “How strange,” I thought to myself “that when I have to now get up for my own reasons it’s suddenly so much harder.”

And that, my friends, is my observation of the day, the conclusion of which has led to a theory: Time is Relative™

You know what would be great? Or, if not great, at least tolerable? If, in the magical land in which magazines are created and published, there existed a fantastical device. This device would look like a fat “Y” and lie on it’s back. Along it’s trunk, all the newly printed magazines would ride until they met the fork in the road. At the fork, some would go to the left and some would go to the right. Those to the left, the normal magazines that we are all familiar with, the ones staring back at us, smiling from bookstore magazine racks and next to the impulse candy at the market. Those to the right, the magazines to be sent to loving and faithful subscribers, to be read while lounging on the couch or before the last bit of light is extinguished in the bedroom. And what, besides their special destination make the magazines to the right so special? The fact that the magazines to the right, in all their resplendent specialness, do not get filled with those advertising inserts that fall out all over my living room.

They do NOT.