The Corned Beef Conspiracy: Ireland Doesn’t Exist And St. Patrick Is The Meaty Equivalent Of Mrs. Butterworth
Just as Hallmark created Valentine’s Day so they could sell cards and De Beers invented the concept of marriage in order to give false value to diamonds, March seventeenth has forever become entwined with this strange salted meat, despite said meat having no basis in traditional Irish cuisine, because there is no such thing as Ireland, and therefore no such thing as traditional Irish cuisine, as we will soon see.
Oh, and also this: Colorado Premium, a company specializing in meat processing solutions, created Ireland and the myth of St. Patrick in order to sell corned beef. It’s not crazy at all. Think real hard. Do you know anyone who’s been to Ireland? Do you know anyone who’s met St. Patrick? Didn’t think so. Let’s have a look.
Colorado Premium happens to be one of the world’s largest producers of corned beef, and they also happen to have a picture of a guy wearing a hard hat on their ‘About Us’ page.
Why in the name of fictional St. Patrick’s sheleighleigh would anyone dealing with meat need a hard hat? Meat, and generally any solutions pertaining to it, involve softness. A hard hat seems like something someone who is anticipating a visit to a construction site would wear. Since construction sites aren’t necessary to meat, that means this whole thing is an Illuminati conspiracy. You see, Colorado Premium is run by Kevin LaFluer. LaFluer is a French name. France touches Germany. The Illuminati was founded in 1776 in………….Germany.
Moving right along: a quick scan of Colorado Premium’s ‘Partners‘ page shows standard industry meat alliances—Tyson Foods, Cargill Meat Solutions, Smithfield Beef Group, etc.—except for one: Tapatio Hot Sauce?
What are Tapatio Hot Sauce and a prolific corned beef producer doing in bed together?
Why, they are both shadowy victual fronts veiling the sinister plot intended to further screw the clueless herd of sheep that is the American people, of course.
In what way? Well the guy in the hard hat is obviously building something, and Tapatio Hot Sauce just isn’t that good. So we have an industrious producer of corned beef partnering with a company that makes inferior salsa picante. That means something. Corned beef. Hot sauce. Hot sauce. Corned beef. Corned sauce. Hot beef. Corned hot beef sauce.
Colorado Premium is taking that salsa picante partnership cash and using it to build a moat filled with disgusting Tapatio Hot Sauce around the United States in order to keep us
from leaving. Why do ‘They’ (Colorado Premium, Tapatio, and the Illuminati) want to keep us in? It’s pretty obvious. If the lie about Ireland is exposed, the corned beef gravy train comes grinding to a halt. Since the Earth is flat, you should be able to look out from the east coast and see the Emerald Isle. One glance and you’ll notice it’s simply not there. ‘St. Patrick’ is just the meaty equivalent of Mrs. Butterworth. Guinness is Michelob Golden tinted with discarded beef drippings.
So there you go. Hallmark, De Beers, Colorado Premium, Taptio, and the Illuminati all want you to keep buying things because they created a way for you to buy them.
Wake up America.
What does this look like to you?
Add stars, change the color, and you’re looking at a Confederate Flag. These things are flying all over Scotland—the Deep South of the United Kingdom—above whiskey drinking, tartan-pattern-clad-inbred-half-human-sheep in foggy front yards full of tractors on concrete blocks next to doorless refrigerators and weight benches outside of shacks constructed from pillaged castle stones and petrified loch-beast droppings.
Until these icons of hatred are torn down, I propose a boycott of all things Scottish. During the coming days, weeks, maybe even months or years, let us all abstain from eating haggis, wearing kilts, and pumping on our bagpipes. I don’t want to have to put myself through this, Scotland, but I will.
Until your queen issues a decree forcing the removal of these flags, Scotland is dead to America. Remember when we didn’t hesitate to call French fries “Freedom fries,” and French toast “Freedom toast?” France’s attitude got a nice little tune-up after that.
Actually, by that logic we don’t have to give up anything Scottish, just rename it. Haggis is now Patriot Guts, kilts will be known as Freedom Man-Skirts, and bagpipes will be used to play the Windsong of America!
The ball is in your court, Scotland. Don’t make us have to wear Freedom Man-Skirts. You can be the change.
American ‘cheese’ is to the coagulated milk world as hot dogs are to the meat world. But what the hell do I know, I’m just a guy that wipes too hard.
The recent Adrian Peterson controversy is one with many possible angles and viewpoints. Is it okay to beat a four-year-old child with a switch and rip open his scrotum if it is going to make him behave? We’ll never know. Is it okay to beat a 29-year-old man with a stick and puncture his nugget pouch for tearing into a four-year-old’s gonad bag? There is no scientific answer.
But the most disturbing question of all is this: why has no one offered up a proposal that would force the NFL star to change his name to Adrian Beat-his-son? It shames him, it’s a fun play on his real name, and the NFL would make even more money when Vikings fans have to re-buy updated number 28 ‘Beathisson’ jerseys.
All I’m asking is for the government and NFL to give some good old fashioned public humiliation a shot.
A Walmart near my home recently moved to a new location in the next town over.
In the world of corporate warfare, a lateral move is an odd tactic for a sprawling empire. The retail giant has never shied away from cramming as much Walmart into the world as it can. Why go to the trouble of moving a store from one town, when it would be easier and more profitable to leave the original location, and simply open another?
For example, everyone that shops at Walmart is morbidly obese, and has anywhere from five to seven children, no older than age four. The sheer logistics of transporting the raw tonnage of just one Walmart-supporting familial unit across town and into the store is mind boggling, especially when the family knows they will be competing for items to cough on and space to sweat with hundreds of other identical individuals. It has to be difficult. Just imagine for a second. Now add five miles to the drive. If you listen closely, you can hear the ball bearings on all those 1995 Dodge Caravans quivering in terror.
Why risk discouraging these honest, blue collar, XXXL sweatshort-wearing folks from travelling to the new location by adding extra distance to their trip?
Think about it. Money, a commodity of which Walmart has an unlimited supply, would normally solve any problems the company has with legal issues, labor disputes, real estate, and of course, constructing as many Walmart stores as possible.
So, what possible problem exists that won’t go away when money is offered as the solution?
The only explanation for the relocation is this—the site is haunted. Multitudes of ghosts, uninsured and very very poor because they worked at Walmart while among the living, have taken up residence in the store. These former employee ghosts scare the children. When children get scared, they urinate and defecate everywhere. When there is liquid waste and scat everywhere, even the regulars become alarmed and the area is declared a biohazard. Not even Walmart’s fat cash stack can sop up that much bodily fluid.
Add to that the fact that no amount of money will get those ghosts to leave, because they are ghosts, and they don’t want or need money.
This is only the beginning. Look for a rising number of Walmart stores to change locale in the near future as they slowly become overrun by ethereal beings who lack the means to cure a simple cough. All the confusion and jostling around will eventually frustrate the customer base enough to give up on the beloved brand entirely, and give rise to a new dynasty waiting in the wings, a company not infiltrated by a mass paranormal invasion.
Does anyone out there possess knowledge of bird digestive systems? I’m pretty sure the one that lives on my balcony has diarrhea. Normally, they leave small, white, circular marks that easily wash away with any rainfall. Lately, there are giant chunky piles with residual splatter that travels up to three feet.
I’ve already pumped a few worms full of Pepto and left them in a dish near the nest. The projectile shatting only seemed to intensify after that.
Help! I don’t know what to do!
I’ve been thinking of names for cats.
The second is reserved for more of a suave, sleek tomcat. I’d call him Bruce Mandick.
Had Rocco been hit by the same car, the thing would have crumpled around him. The mechanic would be flummoxed as to how the front end had obtained a Rocco Hamfist-shaped hole in it. Bruce Mandick would then walk in, push the grease-monkey aside, and fix the car for him.
That’s how much a name matters.
Rocco and Bruce would impregnate many cats. Their offspring would have names like Zenobia Trident. Gullveig Tetrahedron. Lucretia The Terrible. They would rule all the land.
So, if you think you’ve got a manlier name for a cat, or believe your feline could out-impregnate these two, by all means, let me know.