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.
When I’m watching a sporting event at home I sit on a couch during the national anthem. Sometimes I stand to go use the bathroom. Most of the time I watch something else until the game starts. I know the song is playing, but it’s on a different channel. Does the mere knowledge that the national anthem is playing somewhere require some sort of action?
If you camped outside the house of a pro-stander (or anti-sitter) and played the song continuously would they never sit down?
If you did the same thing at the home of a pro-sitter (or anti-stander), would they never stand up?
If the song is performed acapella using sign language in a forest, does it make a sound?
Did you know that my nom de plume for this blog, Michael Cedarwood, was concocted by using the classic porn formula of (middle name) + (street you grew up on)?
But did you also know that like NBA legend Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, I have more than one middle name? And that I grew up on more than one street? With all those names and all those streets under my belt, the identity of my blogging alter-ego had the potential to swing in many different directions.
I have compiled a list of my other middle names and streets that I grew up on. Let us now take a look at what could have been.
Veiny Von Opulent
Lactose Jackson (not to be confused with Catfish Jackson)
I think my relationship is on the rocks.
I recently told this chick I’m seeing that it’s unacceptable for her to have dated anyone before me.
On every trip to her house since then, I can’t help but notice the lack of effort she’s put into obeying my command—travel through time, and change the past. One day, when she was in the restroom for a really really long time, I poked around a bit. An investigation of her internet search history came up with exactly zero schematics for a flux capacitor. The ‘Recently Watched’ category on her Netflix showed she hasn’t viewed Quantum Leap, Timecop, or the episode of Family Matters where Urkel invents a time machine. On the bookshelf, there was nothing even close to the subject of physics, let alone the theory of relativity, knowledge of which is essential to transcend linear time.
How I interpret this: she has not even thought about travelling back in time to change her relationship history in order to make me happy.
Next time I’m visiting, when she’s passing the laxative-laced Taco John’s meal I will have brought for her, I think I’ll use the alone time to inspect the shed and see what’s going on in there. From the outside, it doesn’t appear big enough to house a DeLorean, or even a circular metal pod that is thick enough to withstand the sparks and zaps that occur when space-time is warped, but we’ll see.
If the shed doesn’t turn up anything, the excavation of her yard then begins, in search of a large elliptical disc that she maybe recovered from aliens and is using to reverse engineer their technology in hopes of making the buttons and gears more useful for human hands.
If that doesn’t work, I don’t know.
Women like to feel safe, protected, secure. That’s why the other night, when me and my girl were sitting in a dark parking lot enjoying some gas station sandwiches, I gazed into her eyes, took her hand in mine, and told her, in all seriousness, “I’m not going to kill you.”
That’s the most reassuring thing you can tell your significant other. Well, one of the most reassuring things. Once, when we were sifting through garbage looking for dumpster donuts, the alley light reflected just right off a pool of a homeless man’s urine, and I couldn’t help but let her know: “Your eyes are so beautiful. There’s no way I would ever spend my nights and weekends modifying my vacuum cleaner’s motor to give it enough power to suck those gorgeous spheres right out of your head and then display them in a jar of formaldehyde on a shelf next to my bed, leaving you as an eyeless freak.”
Because, you see, most women don’t want to be tortured either. It’s important to remind them that you don’t plan on putting them through that.
I can recall another time, shortly after we were digging through that dumpster, when we went to the actual dump itself, in search of the mother lode. You see, the top layer of junk preserves any foodstuffs below quite immaculately, makin’ for good eatin’, if you’ve got a free afternoon for siftin’ and pickin’. But I digress. So there we were, having one of those romantic trash fights you see in movies. As I was about to slam an old toilet seat over her back, the curves of her body were caught in silhouette against the flames of the incinerator. “You have such an amazing body,” I said. “If I were some sort of psychopath, I would be salivating right now, thinking of how I could chop you up into little pieces, dump them off at a hog farm in Wisconsin, and be back in time for breakfast. But I’m NOT going to do that.”
For a relationship to survive, the woman needs to know these things. These ladies, they lay awake nights, sweating, staring at the ceiling, wondering to themselves: “I really like this guy, but I really want to know if he’s going to lock me in a basement for a week, only feeding me dog food and rainwater, while he wears my clothes and tells me how stupid they look. If only he would tell me that he isn’t going to do any of that.”
This is why heartbreak the world over exists in such large volumes. If lovers would just speak from the heart, and let their partner know their true feelings, we could all be happier. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go call my girlfriend to let her know that I will NOT be making a stir fry out of her calf muscles and all the vegetables sitting on my counter.
—this happened one time in a restaurant:
servant: “would you like soup or salad with that?”
me: “a super salad, eh? yes, yes that sounds good. i’ll have that.”
servant: “well, which one?”
me: “there’s more than one super salad?!”
it was kind of like one of those ‘who’s on first’ things
—every time one of my friends starts dating a new person, my first question for that friend is always, “what, is she blind and deaf?”
—why does the orkin man wear a helmet? they’re bugs.
—that’s all i’ve got.
—no it isn’t. i have a coworker with the last name Jass (i really do). not once have I asked if he has a relative with the name hugh. am i losing my wit, or finally showing signs of maturity?
Dear charitable donor:
Greetings and salutations, you altruistic bastard! Thank you for your recent philanthropic contribution of one toilet seat with human feces on it. Our organization is grateful. I love dung—we’d all become very sick if our bodies didn’t produce it. Having said that, it is with great regret that we decided to reject your attempted donation.
I know, I know. The toilet seat was in good condition. I’m the first person to admit that. No cracks, well oiled hinges. Can’t ask for much more than that. And remember, in the opening sentence of this letter, I professed my love of scat, so please don’t take this next part as offensive. I’m not the bad guy here.
Apparently, there are “health codes” here in Minnesota. I hadn’t heard of them until this, either. I mean, it’s your right as an American to get as much soft serve on your personal toilet seat as you want. I’ll defend to the death that freedom. Supposedly, and I’m just quoting my superiors here, we are allowed to accept toilet seats as charitable donations, those are fine and dandy, but any residual splatterings that accompany them are strictly verboten. It’s a bunch of bureaucratic brew-ha-ha, if you ask me. Bowel movements are a part of life, like breathing. Next thing you know, we won’t be able to accept anything that has been breathed on. Thank you, liberal America. Or is it the conservatives? Either way, they’re both screwing people like you and me—the real heroes, the “little guys”—over in one way or another.
Yes, we need your “gently used” items. The term is a bit misleading, I see that now. In this floundering economy, our charity needs anything we can get our hands on. So what if you walked into the bathroom and spray-farted before you were properly seated, then decided the toilet seat that took the shot was good enough for those less fortunate? In my jaded vision of a perfect world, that would be acceptable. But, like I said, it’s my boss, not me, that’s putting the kibosh on this. I would loved to have picked up that festering poo-poo-platter, I really would have, but I’ve got a job to worry about here. Otherwise I’ll be the one needing your discards!
It is our benevolence that propels us forward as a species. But alas, as we continue on, sanitation is becoming an ever-enveloping issue. It just is. I’m going to fight this, believe me. Until the higher-ups pull their heads out of each other’s (probably properly-wiped) butts, can I ask that you please humor them and clean any trace of solid waste off of anything that you plan on donating to charity?
The guy who picks up the stuff you donate to charity